red-handed

It's 6:02 in the morning. Lately I've been getting up at 5. I used to get up at 5:30, but then I thought,  Well, I'm getting up this early anyway, why don't I push it a bit to get more done? It's not like I'm here for my looks.    In how many ways do you flinch when someone starts telling you how tired they are? Or how busy? At this point I think most people avoid even saying it. I think  distracted  or  disjointed  or  slightly unraveled  would be more accurate. I am most tired when I wake up. Yawning and yawning. There's two other points in the day –– early afternoon and just after supper –– which might as well be filled with smoke bombs for all the seeing and thinking that gets done.   I used to work with a guy who would go out to his car to have a nap in the backseat over lunch. This worked not only because he was very tired but also because he was a small guy. Could just curl up. I think he packed a blanket. Sometimes he would go to the gy

We got some new dishes on the weekend. I had resisted this, in a low-key, subtle way, for as long as possible, but for C a visit to Ottawa is often like a visit to Chernobyl, only with IKEA contagion instead of radiation sickness. Sure enough, a full-on pandemic of antagonized reorganizing ensued, meaning things in front of things, things on top of things, an almost Soviet enforcement of category that does not respect the practical limitations of drawer size, cupboard size or any laws of physics, and that treats anything that does not look like something else (matchy-matchy!) as something heretical, and any odds and ends are immediately judged guilty regardless of their usefulness, and so marked for destruction (read: the garbage). And of course anything from my former lives that has somehow survived to this point (and believe me, there isn’t much) will now be purged, finally, at last, thank God. I could not watch it while it was all happening last night, but I knew what was wai