An extra hour. Or the idea of an extra hour. A rearranged hour. I spent mine reading a month-old New Yorker, because I was already up and dressed when I remembered. I was halfway through an article on Helen Mirren when it was really time to go church. How did you spend your hour?
5:30. Almost completely dark. Just a little blue left in the sky. It feels late. I don’t usually see the sunset – I’m shut up in a windowless room from 6:15-9:30 most nights – so it surprises me on the weekends. The whole gradually-getting-darker thing.
I can’t stop listening to Broken For You. I seem to put in a new tape every few minutes. I listened to it while I took a bath. While I made dinner. Curled up on the couch half-asleep over a cup of tea. Brunch. I’m also reading The Secret River, which is excellent, but in a way where I don’t identify with any of the characters particularly, and I sense an impending bleakness at all times. It never lifts, even in the lovely moments. I suppose that’s the point. I’m curious how it will all resolve.