I packed all my possessions into cardboard boxes today. And then, I baked brownies.
We're shifting houses tomorrow. I like the new house. It has a fig tree and a lawn for Panda to play in. I've already picked out the back room for myself. When I look out the window, I can see the tree and then a high, rather intimidating compound wall.  
I don't have much to pack. Clothes, books, a yoga mat and a map. I've never cared to spread myself out. Not have I ever hung picture frames. I don't think I get attached very easily to places or homes. Or maybe the heat is just making me listless.
My brownies turned out lovely, although baking them in the afternoon heat wasn't fun. The butter and chocolate melted as I touched them, leaving greasy streaks on my hands, that Panda licked intently later. The brownies baked up deep brown and chocolatey, with thin, crackly skins. 

It's hot and dry and dusty outside. I'm indoors today though, and the curtains are drawn. I've foregone the bright sunlight for artificial blue light. Panda spent all morning panting up at me with his tongue out. Now he's asleep under my bed. All I can see of him is a curling black tail with a feathery white tip.
He'll wake up soon and half-heartedly beg me for a walk. I'll half-heartedly comply and we'll trudge miserably on the tar road outside as the heat from the earth rises to our faces.
Still, I really can't complain. The exam I was preparing for is over, for better or for worse. I've spent two days shopping, and didn't once feel the heat while I was out. I have two more precious days of freedom and I'm going to waste them gleefully. I don't have a plan for my dissipation. N and I used to discuss how we would commit acts of calculated irresponsibility. We did it too. But uncalculated irresponsibility is a first for me and oh, so freeing.
I suppose my reckoning will come, but right now, I'm too hot to care. 

Happiness, Joe says, is a wild red flower   

                      plucked from a river of lava   

and held aloft on a tightrope   

                      strung between two scrawny trees   

above a canyon   

                      in a manic-depressive windstorm.

Don’t drop it, Don’t drop it, Don’t drop it—,   

And when you do, you will keep looking for it   

everywhere, for years,   

while right behind you,   

the footprints you are leaving   

will look like notes   

                                          of a crazy song.

From How It Adds Up, by Tony Hoagland

I shouldn't be here, reader. I should be studying right now, desperately. I have an exam I need to give on Sunday, and a lot depends on how well I do in it. I've driven myself half mad this past month trying to absorb as much as I can. I've nearly turned cross-eyed from reading so much, and I find myself daydreaming far more than is seemly. My mind does not take well to being cooped up. The happiest moment of my day is when I go for a run in the evening, and for a little while action is a substitute for thought. Almost all the time though, I feel terribly restless. I scold myself to no avail. It's silly really. When I'm busy and swept up in action, I crave time for thought, and now when I seem to have all the time in the world, I waste it. 

Ah well, enough about me. I just needed to scold myself publicly, to invoke what little shame I hope I still possess. The whole point of this post really was to share with you the poetry of Tony Hoagland who I've recently discovered and can not stop reading. I wish I could write like that. I know wishes are futile, but it's still wonderful to know that I at least share space on this earth with people who can write like that. People who think up these incredible, heartbreakingly lovely, cunningly wrought things and are generous enough to share them with the rest of us. 

It's a comforting thought, reader. Inspiration is really never too far away.

It's half past nine on Sunday morning and the air outside is still and heavy. We had a sweaty night with one annoying little mosquito buzzing near my ear throughout. For once, I woke up before the dog. He looked as surprised as I felt. We stumbled outside at six and it was already bright and sunny.
When we came back, I sipped my coffee as Panda careened madly about on the grass. That first sip of coffee, fresh from the filter... it's my favourite part of the day. I take a sip and taste the warm, bitter liquid, then I swallow and feel the caffeine spreading through my veins. Almost immediately, the dog seems funny, the sunlight feels pleasant, the newspaper interesting.
Now I'm settled down to work, with the dog flopped at my feet. He's wrapped himself around the legs of my chair which makes getting up a highly delicate activity. I like to pretend I'm chained to my desk and that I have to stay here and work till he gets up. No distractions. Except of course, to come here and tell you about it.