All day today I feel behind, in between. Like I’m caught between two weather systems. Working at the library with Kate, we are each prepared for a long day. Almonds, and cucumbers, and apple slices. But shortly after noon I become feint. I think I must be sick. All weekend I have been battling something, but on Sunday, for some reason, I decided to push it and go for a run. I feel like I must be paying for that mistake. “I’m sorry,” I say, “I have to go.” Kate leaves with me, and we say goodbye in front of the JHB. I go upstairs and finish the last poem I was working on. I take the vitamins that I’ve stashed in my desk cabinet. I tell Chelsea that I’ve “pulled a Chelsea”—realized that on a previous visit to the library I walked out with a book without checking it out (I fix it this time). Carson arrives and they invite me to join them for coffee. I ask where they’re going, not that I imagine it might make much difference, but perhaps my mind would be changed if I could order some kind of ginger-laden smoothie. They’re going across the street. “No thanks,” I say. We say goodbye in the lobby and I get on my bicycle. At home I make a soup—carrot, ginger, red lentil. I add spinach to distinguish it from another soup I made recently. I don’t know where the rest of the day goes—I am not completely here. I read, I nap, I order a free pizza. Some things I read open me up, and some things close me off. I want to read more of the former and less of the latter. I am impatient for my exam on Wednesday but impatient for many things. The i Ching keeps telling me to still my self, to focus on what I can change. I am trying to do that. I think it will be easier after Wednesday. Some things will be. I liked making the soup. I wished there was someone to share it with. Particular. I imagined a phone call I used to receive: one right after an important event, perhaps live from an exam centre. Of course there was nothing like that today. Just the weather. Just a feeling of faintness that causes me to imagine I am trapped between two systems of rolling clouds. Or perhaps in a kind of fog which has swept over the streets… The book that opens me up fills me with a kind of regret. It also offers possibility. I accept both regret and possibility. I’m afraid but of course I can weather this whatever the situation may be. As I write Ripley is at my feet, meowing mournfully. Even though I’ve spent more time at home than ever lately it is somehow not quite enough for him. He alternates meowing and cleaning his legs. I wish the air would clear inside me. 

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