The holiday weekend was love unto itself that didn’t know when to end. Sleep tried to cover the transition and almost did, but waking just meant waiting for somebody else’s plumber.

There’s a fine balance which I am not managing well, between the solitary business of keeping my untainted wits about me, and the social business of family old and new.

I have a very hard time caring about where I’ll be sleeping on a given night six weeks from now. Being forced to worry about it now anyway is far more distressing than it should be for me. That’s what I mean by poor management.

This is supposed to be the clear time where I can dream on what will come next in the biggest sense, and making it better, and making it happen. Where I will be sleeping, perhaps, on a given night six years from now.