An idiot is someone who lets their education do all of the thinking

Good news: slept something like eight hours. Migraine seems to have passed off. Feel vaguely flensed and lightheaded.

Bad news: have spent entire afternoon calling doctors and wrangling insurance instead of working in preparation for travel to Providence.

News that is ultimately good but for God's sake: after two separate phone calls and a lot of time on hold, I found out what happened to those twice-submitted proof-of-eligibility documents that I was told this very afternoon were not on file and would need to be faxed in yet again, delaying our reinstatement by another four days at least. They were on file. Under my husband's name. Even though I am head of household as far as the state of Massachusetts is concerned and the person whose name is at the top of all the bills. Both sets were right there in the system, the original sheaf from May and the emergency fax from last Thursday, correctly timestamped and totally divorced from the relevant account, i.e., mine. I just got lucky with the second phone call and got someone who thought to check under my spouse's name as well as my own and has consequently referred the whole megillah to the verification office with extensive notes about how we should not be punished for institutional male chauvinism. (The emergency fax had a cover sheet headed with my name and identifying information, account number prominently included!) By Friday this mess should be starting to sort itself out and then I will be able to see doctors without going broke and afford the medications I need in order not to bleed internally. But this is stupid.

Ghost boy, he tossed me a lucky coin

Night train to Providence. Does not have the same ring as Munich, but at least I don't have to deal with Rex Harrison charming his way to center stage through sheer force of conceit, changing shape just faster than the last one can wear out its welcome. (And it's not a night bus, but I still suspect Oscar Shapeley of being around here somewhere. Oscar Shapeley is always around somewhere. That's the trouble with him.) Concrete platforms like empty stages, LED streetlights flicking by in the dark. You can tell how close we are to the solstice because the horizon was still ember-apple green as I got on the Red Line at Porter Square. I am heading down to help friends pack out the last of the apartment I watched them move into, almost exactly ten years ago. Storage unit tomorrow, movers the day after that. Then I'll send them letters care of the American South. I have come to associate them with this city, with its ocean and its mythology and the quality of light in their front room. It will feel weird to visit it and know they are not somewhere in it, part of what makes the city itself. It is hard not to feel at all times that everything's over, nothing left but the ongoing process of loss; that is the rhetoric of the world right now and too much of the reality of it. I have to remind myself it is not absolute. They will make part of another city. Everything changes shape, not just Rex Harrison.