Frustrating day. Had to…

Frustrating day. Had to run out and deal with errands that I really didn't feel up to dealing with, and they took twice as long as they should have and now I'm exhausted. But Pamie made me happier today, and I gotta say, if I were monogamous, I'd be calling her up for Chris's number.

9:00 p.m. Weary. I've mostly been reading; just not up for much else, though the work is starting to pile up again. Finished the Mistry book yesterday -- very good, and a fascinating plot structure, but so much sadness. I know there's a lot of sadness in the world, but sometimes I just don't want to write or read about it.

Then today I read Kate Wilhelm's Where Late the Sweet Birds Sange, which was a very good novel about cloning and the end of the world, and yet again, so much sadness. I'm not saying it's a tragedy (or the Mistry, for that matter)...just that you go through a lot of tragedy in the process of reading the book. I know that pain and joy sometimes to hand in hand...but I just don't want to believe that you must have equal portions of both (or more pain, for that matter).

And now I'm most of the way through Nalo Hopkinson's latest, Midnight Robber, which I am enjoying immensely as I knew I would, but I am just hoping that there isn't too much more pain coming up -- Nalo isn't an author who pulls punches either. But since she's a friend of mine, maybe I can bully her into making her next book a happy one.... no, probably not.

Ah, I'm just mopey today. Kevin's not back yet from his conference from England and it's been almost two weeks and we don't get much more time together before he goes off to Chicago and I stay here and I'm both missing him and missing him in advance. I know it's the right thing career-wise for us both -- and for us, career means more than just a job to pay the rent; it's our work and our love and a fair bit of our lives. I've always known there was the possibility that his work or mine would separate us; they're so integral to who we are, that I don't think we could sacrifice the work for love and remain the kind of person that the other had fallen in love with. But I'd hoped that we wouldn't have to confront that, that circumstances wouldn't ask this.

Ah well. The doctorate is right for me, I'm pretty sure, and there's no school in Chicago offering one in creative writing. And this post-doc at U. Chicago is right for him -- I'm so proud of him for getting it. We'll see what the next few years have in store for us, and see what we have and who we are at the end of them.

10:00 p.m. Wrote a poem, the second of this year.


	i will go				
	into the mountains		
	the empty spaces		you will go down 
	where the wind			to the city
	shuddering			a small room a 
	through quaking			single chair a
	aspen				screech of 
	is the only			police or
	conversation			ambulance
					and occasional
	the air so clear		gunshots
	and bright at 
	dawn				the waves against
	the sky every 			the city shore
	shade of gold			the temptation
	the peaks sharp			to walk beside 
	like knives			them in the dark
	the wind cold			at night
	and startling			when your mind
					is racing
	in the silence
	poems are			the constant 
	writing themselves		thudding
	on crisp 			waves lines bodies
	white sheets			exploding
					on the pages 
	i remember
	the city			you remember

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