each one of my coworkers is laid up with the flu today but me. the office has the warmth of an empty cardboard box and save for the unappealing barrenness, it's nice to be alone. barry called to give instructions and to say: if you don't have this too, you've the constitution of an ox, and we'll marvel at your immunity. he may have called me a brick too. I like very much being called a brick; it's a pleasant, puzzling britishism that tells me what I don't often hear: steady and reliable, square-cornered and solid. (I'm accustomed more to that I'm scattered, airy. stringy, plucked-from clouds. but maybe I'm the only one telling me that.)
yesterday was one of those days of confusion that consisted of about three too many parts. disparate things with no bridges between. I made a hanging lamp for c that looks like a glowing seed pod (copper wire, japanese paper, cords & switches that I snipped and spliced); freaked out at least three times (no money. moving hassles. grad school apps. choreography showing next weekend.); trounced a psych professor in scrabble (two bingos! recenter, bifocals); did a list of domestic things at a house that isn't mine (laundry. soupmaking. dishes.); went to dinner with c's agent in the evening. that was weird and surreal and the most pleasant thing of the day. "it's so adult!" he whispered to me. and I said no, it's something else. adult is paying bills and having a retirement account. dinner with your book agent is glamour city.