3 pm. There is a happiness and a sadness, to put it crudely. Joy in waking after a 12-hour sleep, drenched, to clean the disastrous kitchen slowly, wash each thing, put it right, the wineglasses, the pastry board, the rolling pin, recycle the cans emptied of pumpkin and coconut milk, wipe up the flour and spatters of salsa, run the garbage disposal with a lemon half in it.
Then, an emptiness. Today no longer holiday, the sending of small but important business emails, facing the cash-flow situation, facing the fact that a good deal of writing (the Trier paper, the two book reviews, at least one post for the journal) needs to be done in this precious time off from teaching. Plus my syllabus is due on January 7, and as usual I am trying to redo it so I don’t perish of boredom. There are small errands around town: I will return the purple designer handbag (just typing those words makes me nearly bend double with shame) that I bought in a moment of on-sale madness, because, hello, graduate student, disability, no. (The charcoal gray cashmere cardigan stays. I haven’t taken it off since it arrived, except for sex and sleep and to bathe; it is apparently what S. would call “mission critical.”)
And then, finally, it’s cold. I worry about the orange tomcat who must’ve spent last night completely outdoors, around 1 am I took out Pyewacket’s cat carrier with one towel in it and another over it, but of course he was afraid to go inside, because of her smell. He was so cold he was trembling. I couldn’t bring him in here because of her. And he’s covered in fleas.
But it’s only the day after Xmas, I don’t have to do everything, though I feel I should. There are leftover chicken enchiladas, more than half a pumpkin pie, and enough fresh pineapple for another round of piña coladas. And all is good and peaceful. I will do the writing later today, tonight, tomorrow. There is time. I can afford to be calm.