Yesterday early failure in resolution to write 500 words a day in Plain Kate. Went up to the New Quarterly, read the slush pile, worked on the magazine's website. Heard Charlene Diehl read narrative fragments about losing her six-day-old daughter, about how to grieve for someone who has no life story. Wept through the reading. On the bus home just behind me a young man was too good for the bus, too good for the world, keeps up a steady comment to his girl, who laughs like a wind-up toy. At the North Terminal, for instance: �Maybe they�ll all get off here. Maybe if I get off, everyone will get the fuck off.� I want to turn, tell him how fragile things are. Do not. Quietude? Cowardice? The memory of being young and stupid and miserable?
By the time I get off the bus I�m so tired I can hardly get home. It�s almost sunset -- when did sunset start coming so early? I lay on the couch for an hour, then sleep from 8:00 to 11:00. Read till 3:00 AM (Robin McKinnley�s Sleeping Beauty story Spindle�s End, which is merely workmanlike, ever comes alive.)
Today I�m past tired and somewhere into weary. Try again to write. The brewery must be malting. A sour smell presses down like a fog.
