That I may lay down and take a long sleep for twelve months and a day

I appear to be rather tired. Possibly this is because I spent the afternoon walking around the Middlesex Fells with ratatosk—I'm not sure our level of activity was strenuous enough to qualify as hiking, but we did climb over some wonderful granite outcroppings, shining as sea-pebbles under that slightly luminous overcast you get on certain days that are almost rain. The lichens were wet and very bright. There was a waterfall. I talked a lot about Mythago Wood. We are definitely going back.

Possibly I am also tired because this week has been so far—and likely to continue—much more social than I was planning when we got back from New York. Monday, I met Dean at Tealuxe after my voice lesson and discovered they serve decaf chai that does not give me a migraine, which was a pleasing surprise. Tuesday was mostly yardwork in the rain and reading slush for Strange Horizons until I had to run an errand in Davis Square in the late afternoon, as a result of which I had dinner with derspatchel at Pizzeria Posto. (Goat ragout. Oh, my God.) I can't remember the last time I had a sundae before Wednesday, but I got one from J.P. Licks with Matthew that was coconut yogurt with hot fudge and mango and we talked a lot of Mel Brooks movies; stopping by the Diesel netted me an unexpected five minutes of audioboy and in the evening lesser_celery showed me a Pixies concert from 1988 and the first episode of Six Feet Under (2001), both of which I quite liked. Today, Fells and brief sightings of Rob and Abbie the Cat. Tomorrow I am making a gazillion samosas with rushthatspeaks because Sassafrass will need to eat them on their road trip to a wedding in Virginia.

So I should probably not be surprised that I passed out on the bus back from Somerville and had half-dozing, disconnected dreams: a man pulling yards and yards of red silk from his slit unbleeding wrist, a woman's voice singing in the winter war for his country, always a soldier against a drum-machine backbeat, something about angels and orange trees. The line a ghost from the sticks, which I couldn't decide if it meant also the underworld river. I haven't been able to get my brain to shut off before four or five in the morning the last few nights—although staying up for The More the Merrier (1943) was totally worth it—and it would be nice if tonight's the night that alters. I still think I'm doing all right. I've been happy. I'd just like to be able to say the same by Monday.