journal: 8.3.13

An unusually cool evening for early August.  The utterly decadent feeling of slipping on a sweater … and, miracle of miracles, a pen is in the pocket!  I really should have at least seven pens, but only two have been in commission for some time and I have no idea where the larger lot could be.

Today the apartment received another thorough scrubbing.  Sometimes with housemates I feel like the household maid. But still, there is a deep luxury to suds and brushes, drying the mop sponge in full sun, scrubbing the porcelain sink, removing all smudges from the bathroom tiles … twice mopped floors underfoot, the faint lingering scent of vinegar. I also cleaned the refrigerator, the final act to make a place feel truly, certifiably clean.  I cleaned until there were no paper towels or rags left, then sorted the bookshelf.

Last night I dreamt my right hand became green, covered with scales, and growing pointed nails.  I recognized it as my real, authentic hand, and loved it.

sun-edite