fishing poemstry

This whole event actually began with a man on a balcony, shooting off a Roman Candle at an unholy morning hour. But that's just how it was for me.

WHAT I DID THIS WEEKEND

I'm not sure how or what to feel about this piece. Pile onto the usual self-loathing that follows almost any article I write an increased degree of tiredness and the weird homesickness that smote suddenly upon me Saturday night around, I'd say, 7 pm. I haven't shaken it yet although a long and unexpected phone talk tonight with Di was nice. We talked about death, loss, cancer, and cooking. Among other things. This is fairly typical.

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Domesticity update: I made soup. But I think I'm extra sensitive to onions. After chopping up two of them I became as to a fountain overflowing. I looked like someone on the worst day of their life...like Mel Gibson in "Braveheart" when the British kill everything and everyone he loves and he gets all hair-draggly and snotty and sad.

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To combat everything that is making me unhappy, I'm watching "Hot Fuzz" and sipping the white wine Sara left in the fridge.

In ten minutes, hopefully the soup will be done simmering.

Then off to bed to dream of small town murders.