2017-07-11

sovay: (Haruspex: Autumn War)
I napped about two hours in the afternoon. The rest of the day went toward my computer: I needed to back up the hard drive before replacing the thoroughly defunct battery and somehow that turned out to take forever. The battery transplant worked. My right hand hurts, but it's not screaming like it was last night, so there must be something to this splint theory. So far it seems that the most difficult thing about the brace is not so much having my dominant hand partly out of commission, because I am ambidextrous enough that I can get by unless I need to write with my left hand, which I can't do, as realizing repeatedly that I need two working hands for things I don't think about, which is why I have just seriously done a search for one-handed shoelace knots.

A year after discovering Dan Taulapapa McMullin's Coconut Milk (2013) in the bookstore in South Station where I could not afford to take it home—or to New York City, as I believe was actually the case—I have finally acquired my own copy. It's as good all through as I hoped it would be from the poems I read at the time and after. Also I like his visual art.

On the dining room table is a grocery bag full of used books, mostly poetry, which my father thought I would like. I suspect he is correct. Nikki Giovanni's The Women and the Men (1979), Heather Ramsdell's Lost Wax (1998), and this hardcover second printing of Archibald MacLeish's Public Speech (1936) look great. You could really hurt someone with an ex-library hardcover of Harlan Ellison's The Essential Ellison: A 50 Year Retrospective (2005).

I still want to write about so many things and I'm not sure it's physically possible. This is infuriating.
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