My calendar is very full.

Today I

• arose at 7 to take my folks to the airport.
• had croissants at Les Madeleines.
• visited the Whole Foods Food Emporium.
• took a long walk by the Jordan River with my friend, after which I
• found that I had hurt my feet because I was too hasty in leaving the house and didn't have socks on.
• pondered the significance of this lapse in judgement.
• took a shower.
• answered e-mail, took a phone call, got some more poems rejected, ate some leftover spaghetti.
• made lemon madeleines.
• took another phone call, then another one.
• prepared for the Ballets Russes event, culmination of the avant-garde poetry workshop.
• ate several madeleines.
• went to Target and forgot to buy the new Prince recording.
• made copies of my manuscript and mailed it.
• moaned a little.
• did yesterday's crossword puzzle.
• moaned some more and took some ibuprofen.
• went to the event and read some poetry aloud to a small group with elegant taste (clearly).
• came home, watched the Jazz play on the road (translation: torture that should be prohibited by the Geneva Convention).
• waited for young running son to write, probably in vain because I think he got transferred this week.

What do I mean by this recitation of mundane events? Well, first of all, I fear I may never blog again if I don't at least try. Second of all, what this day was like? Ridiculous. I got no writing done. I suppose I could have squeezed some in there amongst the moaning and the ibuprofen, but the moaning felt needful. Necessary. Of great moment. Pressing.

So there you have it. If the Jazz keep on being awful on the road, I may moan some more.

Something.

This is not amusing or lively, but it is beautiful and cool:

This is Chris Marker's piece Junktopia. In looking for video essay stuff, I found that ubuweb has a bunch of avant-garde short films linked here. It's a total trove.

Please, shut up.

For the past couple of days, I've found myself monumentally bored with every possible thing I might have to say in a blog-shaped utterance called a "post." Here's what happened: I went back in the archives to find out when, exactly, our Great Mouse Invasion was (I didn't find it, so whatever date I put in that last post--totally made up).

First of all, this exercise made me very glad I have kept this blog--there is a record of my days there, and things I would never remember had I not written it. Second of all, I found a lot of things to like in the writing, which is a good feeling.

At least, it's a good feeling at first, because after that, and third of all, I felt an overwhelming, existential nausea overcome me. What is all the crap I fill my days with of late? Why are there no charming little essays, manifesti, letters to inanimate objects, whatever, that come to mind? Moreover, why is my life so crowded with obligations I can't seem to remember to take care of? And avoidance--why are my hours so powerfully controlled by my urge to avoid whatever it is that's at hand, needing to be done?

I know, it's insufferable. As Robert Lowell said, "I myself am hell." Not to mention, hell on other people.

So that--this absurd state of funk, for absolutely no good reason, really--that's why I haven't blogged for a couple of days. But now: I finished a draft of the paper my colleague and I are writing. I hung up all my clothes. I turned in my travel papers to be reimbursed. I don't know, the day looks brighter.

In the meantime, I have found another possible alternative career--ghost Twitterer.

Signs.

It is mouse season. Since the Great Mouse Invasion of 2007, we have had no further pestilence or rodentine apparitions. However, the cat is our reminder that the mice are there, always there, in the field beyond the fence. The other evening (the night the Magic took the Jazz to the Orlandian woodshed, the very same), I opened the back door for Bruiser only to see, at the foot of the steps, precisely half a mouse and, out of the corner of my eye, an elderly cat scampering in a murderous way. The people, my cat is a serial killer. If she sees a mouse, she will pop a cap in its ass and then eat it. Except for a small pile of innards. Those, she likes to leave as a sign for the criminal profiler.

The economy is weird (or, For whom was this ad written?). Ad for Saks Fifth Avenue in today's New York Times: "MARC BY MARC JACOBS SWIMWEAR. Get a goody-filled zebra-striped beach tote with your $400 swimwear purchase, plus enjoy beach-ready body treatments and more."

I am flummoxed.

Celeriac, my dears. I got a couple of knobby, sprouty pieces of celeriac from Chad recently, and used them a couple of days ago when I made soup. Trim, slice, dice, saute, and your soup will be ever so delightfully redolent of celery, in addition to whatever other vegetables you may have whipped into the mix. What is a cleaner, more refreshing flavor than celery? I ask you.

Snow & the apricot.

This weekend at the multiplex.

Every so often, when we've seen every arty, independent, and/or foreign film in town--you know, the ones that confirm for us we are special and have good taste--and we see movies at the multiplex which is right around the corner from our house. That's right: we live near a movie theater that is so huge it lights up the freaking sky at night, if you look in the right direction. Said theater has stadium seating that, if you get to your showing early enough, allows you to stretch out and even put up your feet. At said theater, you not only have previews, you have commercials and the interminable First Bludgeoning feature, wherein they show you stuff about the upcoming horror film marathon that is summer, the new sitcom on ABC Family that is curiously--curiously!--like Friends, and some other stuff. Said theater shows films that have been focus-grouped and audience-feedbacked to bits. This weekend, the multiplex made us happy with the film-products we viewed.

Exhibit A, Duplicity. I have been in conversations recently, with Dr. Write and another friend, in which they noted they didn't much care for Julia Roberts. Also, recently I read a review by a professional reviewer who noted the same. In my Personal Julia Roberts Filmography (PJRF), I have edited out certain films, certain awful films, because who really needs to remember them? And last night I saw a bit of My Best Friend's Wedding, which is, honestly, quite a bit worse than I remember. So what I'm saying is, I can see their point. And yet, I have never quite crossed that line, the line of not caring for JR, and so it was good to see her last night. She was good. And my friends, Clive Owen was excellent.

Here let me pause to point out that the analytic category we call "chemistry" is highly subjective. After viewing the film on Friday night, I checked out the Metacritic reviews (average score, about 70), and the reviews ran the gamut, from A.O. Scott saying the chemistry between Roberts and Owen was terrific, to some grouch somewhere else saying there was absolutely no chemistry. In case you want my vote: chemistry was effervescent and delightful and very sexy.

We enjoyed Duplicity. It was directed by Tony Gilroy who directed Michael Clayton, which, in case anyone has forgotten, was one of my very favorite films of the last quite a bit of time. This isn't as good as that. But it had an absorbing, tricky-but-not-too-tricky plot, and it zipped along except when there were some small draggy parts. But mostly zipped. Sexy and tricky. Zippy!

Exhibit B, I Love You, Man. This is part of the variously-designated Apatow-esque series (though I believe Apatow had nothing directly to do with this film--he was merely its genial spirit, its motive force, its Prime Mover) of comedies that, if I am frank with you, the people--and what should I be if not frank?--I love. I love them because they are funny, and because "funny" is what you are looking for in a comedy. Funny, and genius, but if you can't have genius, you better have funny.

ILY,M is funny with a side of funny, and funny sauce to top it off. Paul Rudd? Funny. Jason Segel? Funny. Chemistry between the two of them? Forget about it. You may wish to save this movie for when it comes out on DVD. You may wish to save it for a dark, dark day, when you feel you have nothing left to live for. This movie will lead you out of this dark, dark place, with laughter your Beatrice, leading you from the stinking inferno that is regular life, to the Paradise that is a funny-ass comedy. You heard it here.

Let us pause so that we may reflect.

From the Geoffrey Wolff's review of Blake Bailey's Cheever: A Life (New York Times Book Review, 3/15/09):

[Bailey] sometimes bores right to the center of complex relationships, revealing their essence in a sentence, as when he explains Cheever’s reluctance to teach while working on a novel, resenting “distractions of any kind, especially the muddling static of apprentice prose." [Italics--it goes without saying--mine.]

On the other hand, I suppose that none of us wishes s/he were John Cheever, either.

Beautiful information. (apologies to Mr. Tufte)

I ran across an article on Slate about Ben Huh, Internet boy genius who thought up I Can Has Cheezburger and other meme-related sites, including GraphJam, a site in which people graph unlikely topics (relationship of money and troubles, stuff your parents lecture you about, etc.). The article led me to this fantastic flickr set, Song Chart Meme. Here is "I Will Survive," as a timeline (click to see a larger version):

made by metacub
Originally uploaded by boyshapedbox.

Make sure to look at the rest of the set: it's genius. Oh, fine, just one more:

made by sultmhoor
Originally uploaded by boyshapedbox.

Questions & statements.

1. Can anyone give me one good reason I shouldn't dye a pair of white jeans brilliant yellow? Because I'm going to.

2. Question: What is the best M&M? Answer: Almond is the best M&M.

3. I need an agenda. I need some agendas. I need a lot of agendas. Or, possibly, I may need to drastically improve my character.

4. Writing is reading is writing is reading is writing is reading is writing.

5. A year of wearing mostly comfortable shoes renders uncomfortable shoes exponentially more uncomfortable.

6. Today, we have to save capitalism. We can dismantle it later.

7. Some people describe some artists as mere technicians, but technique is really never mere.

8. I speak very, very fluent Spanish. (not true at all. A big fat lie, in fact. But a quotation from Stevie Wonder, so in that sense, true.)

9. (conversation at a gelato stand in Geneva:)

Qu'est-ce que c'est "cannelle"?

Cannelle? C'est--c'est cannelle!

(cannelle is cinnamon, a fact which momentarily escaped the customer, hence the question.)

Any more questions? or statements? Please! I'm not sure why you think I could help you.

Alternative careers (installment 334).

There's a fashion blog that I love so much it actually makes me wince a little--Go Fug Yourself (Because Fugly is the New Pretty). I have shared this blog (wherein the Fug Girls skewer with rapier-like wit the fashions of CelebWorld) with a few of you, I know, but not with everyone, because I don't want you all to think I'm shallow like that. I envy these bloggers, because they are hilarious and observant and also because I am convinced that their job is to look at magazines, read e-mail, and watch trash television--and then to write hilarious and observant posts about it all. Then eat Cheetos and drink Diet Coke. Not that I would ever do that.

But this feature, on New York Magazine's The Cut blog (which the Fug bloggers edit), absolutely tears it. In this case, they're sharing their shopping expertise in a little thing they call "Shop-a-Matic." Each installment of Shop-a-Matic gives you a whole bunch of variations on a theme--in this case, spring dresses--in all price ranges. It's fun to click through the slideshow (No. No. Never. Maybe. No. No. Too expensive. Wait, I think I just saw that at Target. Seriously? Ooooh!). But as I was clicking away, thinking to myself, those Fug Girls have the best job EVER, I realized, Hey. I don't need this so-called Shop-a-Matic! I AM Shop-a-Matic!

The people, I am hereby offering you my services as your own personal ShopRobot. All you need to do is tell me what you're looking for, and I will find you something awesome that expresses your personal gorgeousness. That's right, you heard me: tell me the kind of clothing you want and I will find it for you, and at a price you can afford.

Do you need

• Black linen cropped trousers?
• Spring-y floral floaty top?
• Tee shirt in a silky soft but not-too-sheer fabric?
• A clever bag in just the right size and shape?
• Sculptural shoes?

Like a robot, which as we all know is made by science, I will use my proprietary algorithms to locate these items of clothing for you, and more. And to think, all you have to do is ask.

"It."

Recently, I read this (a post on Terrible Mother which makes reference to a now-notable accusation made by Alice Walker's daughter that she was a bad mom), then this (an article on Salon that talks some more about that accusation, following through to a consideration of the question about whether a mom can be an important writer and an attentive mother--the answer the author comes up with is, "Trust me, a woman really cannot do both. The myth that we can is a dangerous one."), and I have ever since been wondering about this question:

when women ask, "can women have/do/be it all?" what is "it"?

This is a serious question. Now that I am officially old, I really do look at my life with a different filter. For instance, when I look at my 20s, I think, there were people who could have, or maybe should have, given me advice about, say, how to "do" grad school, and maybe I could have learned from others how to focus and sharpen my ambitions beyond, say, getting good grades and keeping my scholarship. But, and on the other hand, if I had become a different kind of person--a person with sharpened and more focused ambitions, or a person who made more of her grad school experience--my life might have turned out quite differently than it had. At this point, I'm not sure that would be all that much of an improvement.

What if "it" is "a rich, full life"? Is that so impossible? (As you can see, I am conducting an argument with myself. Feel free to jump in at any point, though I can't promise you I will yield the floor.)

Slow down hurry up.

On Friday, we took a grandson to lunch for his sixth birthday. A few weeks earlier, he was trying to slow down time, since he was thoroughly enjoying being five and not too sure about six--trying, in his words, to "save himself from six." (Quixotically, however, he also wants to "fast forward to Christmas.")

The people: I am interested in saving myself from spring--we are on the cusp of it, today a delicious day, just on the cusp of it. I have seeds I've purchased that I'm going to plant: lettuces, kale, peas, sweet peas, poppies, larkspur. I like that there's still a chill in the air. I like that it's too soon yet to wear flip flops, shorts, bare legs--but it's almost here. I would like to pause

while this moment lasts and lasts and lasts.

This desire to linger has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that time rushing by means that the elapsing of sabbatical time also rushes. Nothing whatsoever.

Little bits of news.

Recent downloads:

• Mike Errico, Pictures of the Big Vacation
• U2, No Line on the Horizon
• Willie Nelson/Asleep at the Wheel, Willie and the Wheel
• Kutiman, Kutiman
• Neko Case, Middle Cyclone
• John Lee Hooker, I Feel Good
• Robbie Fulks, Georgia Hard

My nephew found this, which is really, literally, too cool for words (this guy remixes music on YouTube to make songs of his own--wow wow wow):

Have an awesome weekend, you guys.

Cheap therapy.

I used to have a therapist, who I liked a lot, and who I visited, on and off, for many years. I cried, I argued, I bargained, I blah blah blah. It was therapy. I learned a lot and I have more tools now than before I went to therapy. Now that I've said that, I don't plan to say another word--if that!--about therapy.

Except that occasionally I buy a copy of O, the Oprah magazine. Don't bother to tell me what's wrong with that. I already know. But sometimes it just kind of cheers me up, gives me a lift, and let me tell you, at this point, I much prefer it to going week after week to an excellent, compassionate, insightful, and skillful professional. For one thing, it only costs me about $4.

Now, as for what I have gleaned in terms of life-improving, soul-healing material with this month's issue: Sarah Vowell's Bookshelf (the "Bookshelf," for those of you whose intake of periodicals includes only The Believer and professional journals, and who would not stoop to mass-market uplift, is a regular feature in O, in which a famous person talks about five or so books that have been important to him or her).

I love Sarah Vowell and her weird little voice. I love her occasional columns in the New York Times. I love running into her on This American Life and wherever else I might run into her. I might, sometime, read Assassination Vacation. Or not. In O this month, she names five books that made a difference to her: Great Lodges of the National Parks, by Christine Barnes; Lincoln at Gettysburg, by Garry Wills; Great Plains, by Ian Frazier; Chronicles, Volume One, by Bob Dylan; and Out of Sheer Rage, by Geoff Dyer. Of this last, she says:

This is a book about not being able to write a book about D. H. Lawrence. Dyer is frustrated and therefore hilarious. He procrastinates. He can't concentrate. He's indecisive about everything from where to live to what to pack. And he lays bare the embarrassing secret of authors. Namely, the amount of stupidity and paralysis and adolescent putting things off that goes into writing about even the most high-minded subjects. As a person who gets paid to pontificate about my nation's history and ideals (but only after walking back and forth to the crackers in my pajamas and/or watching reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer on cable), I find this book terribly funny and painfully true.

Yeah. I get that. I will read this book, absolutely, and after I have contemplated my own weird little dances of avoidance for the writing I am supposed to do, and I want to do, then I will calculate my unanticipated, ancillary sabbatical expenses, such as the overages for crackers and other salty snacks. Oh my Lord.

Bruiser dreams of spring.

For Lent.

Me (there are Reese's flavored Easter eggs on a television commercial): That's right, it's almost Easter.

The historian: That's why, when I stopped at the 7-Eleven on my way home for a bottle of Coke, except I bought Dr. Pepper instead, at the cash register, I said to myself, "That's a Cadbury egg," and I bought one and ate the whole thing in the car.

Me: So you think that's fine, eating Easter candy now? Even though it's Lent?

Historian: Well . . .

Me: I guess you don't really observe Lent.

Historian: No, actually, I'm giving up texting for Lent.

Me: [mirth]

Historian: Also, the desire to text.

Me: [mirth redoubled]

Historian: Also, . . . what is that? Twittering.

Listing.

I found this list via digg, and it's got me thinking about the whole enterprise of the list. Which I love, I think by now it goes without saying.

The list under our discussion, "75 Albums Every Man Should Own," is one of Esquire's millions of lists of 75 things (in honor of their 75th anniversary), and comprises a scintillating mix of things I haven't heard by artists I like or admire (Willie Nelson, David Bowie, Dire Straits), artists I've never listened to, or at least not much (Minor Threat, Cody Chesnutt, Bill Callahan), and artists I hate, viscerally (KISS). Oh, and recordings I know and love: What's Going On, Rubber Soul, The Bends, Blood on the Tracks, Combat Rock, Who's Next, Grace.

Now: What recordings would I say that every human needs to hear? I cannot give you 75, but perhaps, in honor of my blog's almost 4th anniversary, I could choose four, or eight, or twelve. Or maybe I could, instead of saying what's essential, or required listening, or de rigueur, or something like that . . . I could just say, here are a bunch of artists who hardly ever, if ever, let me down:

• Emmylou Harris
• Gillian Welch
• Keith Jarrett
• Brad Mehldau
• Lindsey Buckingham
• any of them there Wainwrights
• The Beatles, Beck, The Who
• Mavis Staples
• Van Morrison
• Neil Young
• Nellie McKay
• Patti Smith
• Richard Thompson
• Rickie Lee Jones

I'll add Joni Mitchell, who has become so cranky lately that it's hard to say she never disappoints, but still. That's eighteen, not a multiple of four in any way that I can think of, but it's a little list of, maybe, kind of, some of the crucial artists for me.

And yours?

Ill-est.

Well, I did go to Target today, but I didn't buy anything, and I did work on a poem to take to my writing group today, and we did eat soup for dinner and then I spent most of the evening horizontal when I wasn't cursing the wireless situation at my house for being all fouled up AGAIN, but when I found this link on kottke, I decided that it was time to get licensed, for the first time in my life, after all these years, and for such a good price!  You can too, but as of now, you have exactly 69 minutes.

Without peer.

Tonight we saw The Class, which is pretty much the best film I have ever seen about teaching, classrooms, students, and education as a social enterprise.  Everyone should run to see it, as fast as you can, so we can all talk about it.

This was but one activity in a pretty much terrific Saturday that involved: 

• a long and loving reading of the sports pages, post the Jazz win, with
• muffins, after which 
• a walk with the dog under a perfectly clear, perfectly blue sky, and then
• dropping clothes off and picking clothes up at the cleaners, and then
• buying vegetables and eggs from Chad and Chad's dad, followed by
• a lunch with the historian's son and his family, which led to 
• visits to several furniture consignment stores at which we were looking for nothing at all, and 
• a visit to Ken Sanders, then
• the movie, after which we drove to the Red Iguana which had scads of people milling around waiting to get in, so we skedaddled along Redwood Road, and had
• dinner at a new-to-us Mexican restaurant.  

Just as we were sipping (in my case, guzzling) the last of our Cokes, the historian said to me: "I wonder how late that new Nordstrom is open?"  

I said I figured it'd be open till 9.  

He said, "Would it be okay if, after we finish here, we went and looked around a little bit?"

The historian does not like to shop, a dislike which extends to pretty much all places where shopping takes place, such as department stores, malls, and department stores located in malls. But he loves me, which is why this brought tears to my eyes.  Yes, the people, I was brought to tears over a Coke in a west side Mexican restaurant because my husband offered to take me to the mall.  So we went, and it was glorious and shiny, and then we came home, to find that West Jordan took the 5-A state championship, which I find absurdly gratifying.  Actually, I taught their coach in an Intro to Lit class at the University.  I'm pretty sure, therefore and ergo, that I had A LOT to do with their victory tonight.  Boo ya!

In basketball news.

1.  I love Deron Williams.  Love. Him.

2. I love Charles Barkley because he loves, has faith in, and believes in the Jazz.

3.  I want it on record that I am still holding a grudge against George Karl because he disrespected Karl Malone's game back in the day.

4.  I am so glad Boozer is back and playing like he means it.

5.  C.J. Miles hits back to back threes!

6.  Brewer plays out of his mind!

7.  Kirilenko uses his freakish arm length to snag balls!

8.  Paul Millsap is a consummate pro.

In conclusion, the Utah Jazz won.  We ate Girl Scout cookies (Do Si Dos, Thin Mints, and Dulce de Leches, courtesy of singing son), potato chips, and drank Coca Cola.  We listened to Jerry Sloan's regular grumpy post-game discussion and we registered all the players soberly acknowledging that these last ten games mean nothing--nothing!--if they can't win on the road. And we rejoiced.

Also of note:  the West Jordan Jaguars are in the 5-A finals for the state championship.  Go go go Jaguars!  And now, good night.

I said:  Good Night.

Organizing.

Funny thing, I feel like I have written this post before, the one I'm about to write, the one about how disorganized I am.  But really, how can I be expected to be organized, when I have so much stuff? Wait, I think I've already written that post, too--the one about how much stuff I have. Come to think of it, this may be my true subject, the chaos and disorder of me and my stuff:

Today, I thought I might make a little movie using some excellent footage I got at the beach, of two lively dogs playing at the water's edge.  I was thinking I might revive a poem I wrote quite a while ago called "Shoreline Grammar," which has dogs playing in it.  This merely required me to find a copy of the poem, then I could begin fussing around with iMovie &c., fussing around being a good way to learn at least some basic stuff.  But first I had to put my hands on the poem, or at least, that's what I figured a logical first step would be.

About eleven or twelve file folders later--and these are actual files, the people, files made from paper--I found (get this!) a handwritten copy of the poem, which I believe I actually had made copies of and took them to my writing group, because it also had my notes from the group.

Please consider these details:  Handwritten copy.  Paper files.  Twelve file folders later.

But now I have it, this sad little handwritten poem, and I have made a digital file of it, started digging around in the Indo-European roots, blah blah blah.  The project will happen.  It's just, the pre-production around here is such a nightmare.  

(file this under:  Chaos and Disorder and Stuff.)

Highlight reel.

Today's list of good things:

• after having misplaced it for a couple of years, I was relieved to find that my friend had my copy of The New Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics.
• the workshop I have been putting together on avant-garde poetry (symbolist, futurist, dada, surrealist, constructivist . . . -ist) of the early 20th century went smashingly at the first meeting this evening.
• when we took our walk, Bruiser and I did not get blown away by the gust-a-licious wind that's been blowing in our town.
• buckwheat pancakes for breakfast.
• I have a plan to visit my mom and dad soon.
• lots of salty crunchy snacks around the house.
• I had important insights when I was in California about some of my poems.
• the historian and I ate breakfast at Clint Eastwood's. Because we're very close friends with Clint. Or because he has a restaurant and inn in Carmel.
• excellent episode of Damages.
• strawberry ice cream.
• the Jazz won tonight, and Boozer played big. Huge. Very, very large.
• I know so much more about the early 20th c. avant-garde amongst French and Russian poets than I did before, say, yesterday.
• because I am done with the workshop for the week (just 2 more meetings!), I can now go read a detective novel like it is my job.

Water and rocks. Okay, water, rocks, and birds. And seals.

The genius of digital cameras is that you can take a zillion pictures and see what you came up with, with no penalty in terms of developing, etc. However, in practice, what this means is that you come home with 500 pictures of interesting rock formations, glorious pictures of the water rolling in, the grandeur of partial shots of birds, and more glorious water.

As I've been sorting through my pictures from our recent trip to the coast, I also realize that I love these pictures, even in their sameness; but I probably don't need to inflict them on the internet. My oldest dear friend has a flickr account that she maintains scrupulously, like a gallery run by someone with exquisite taste. My flickr account, on the other hand, I keep just like I keep everything else in my house--a little chaotically, with many versions of almost the same thing, and everything crowded in with everything else, so you can hardly see what's there. Also, despite my love for the idiosyncratic tag, I have failed to tag my photos, with the result that . . . well, you can predict the results. Let's put it this way: there's a lot of ocean in my flickr.

Never mind. Since there are at least ten shots of amazing rock formations at Point Lobos, and since I cannot bring myself not to keep them all, let me show you at least a little of what we saw in this magnificent part of the California coast:

At Carmel beach.

Pelicans at Point Lobos.

Awesome stone formations! (you just let me know if you need to see more.)

Blue-headed bird at Big Sur.

At Nepenthe, in the late afternoon.

Seaweed on the beach. (lustrous and enigmatic, right?)

This bird seriously dive-bombed me, smacked me in the face, and stole my french fry, practically from my lips.

Back. And forth.

I will have some pictures of the trip up shortly. In the meantime, I am back and I am confronting my agenda, which is daunting, considering that yesterday I was communing with the big fat seals who hang out under the Santa Cruz wharf. They were sleeping and communicating, sharply, then sleeping some more. Perhaps yet another lesson to absorb from our brothers and sisters, the animals? Sleep. Bark. Sleep. Bark. Repeat as needed.