two hundred. thirty three.

'Twas a fine evening for a pipe and some cherry moonshine.
I bought a clay pipe from Ireland and used it tonight for the first time.
Forgot this week about most of the reading for classes so there'll be a lot of Yeats on the train tomorrow morning.
I like him better when it's raining.
You know?
Some things are better read in the rain or the sun
or on a train
or whilst completely stationary in your window seat.
Yeats happens to read very well when the skies are a bit grey.
[no surprise there, you may say rightly.]
The weather calls for sun tomorrow, so it seems I'll have to plug on through anyhow.

Sleep is a thing lately that is not swift in coming & not long in staying. You know? Summer seems ripe with that, what with the sun and the wildness and the loudness of it. I try to force myself to like it, to enjoy the brazen, unapologetic heat. But I'm more content when at least the mornings are cooler.

Had more to say -- something funny too, and I've forgotten it now of course.

two hundred. thirty two.

[Barefeet on wood floors
I'll tell you everything you've heard before
about summer nights.]

I find myself restlessly pacing & toenail painting with cherry whiskey in my mason jar.
Also: reading too many books in the stillness of this sticky evening

The soundtrack is "Michigan" by the Milk Carton Kids on repeat.

"...but I think what really kept him cheerful was his inquisitiveness."
 [Till We Have Faces]

 Isn't that the truth?
Let's always stay curious, searching.
If we remember the wonder we'll stay winsome. Forever and ever.
Promise?

two hundred. thirty one.

When will we know all the things we've learned?
I wish I could remember it all.

I spend every Monday in the city now. I have a Yeats poetry class in the morning, which is better than you could imagine it would be. It's filled with older people, and I get along so well with older people. Pat is a woman who's been to Ireland too many times to count. We stand in the hall and talk during our bathroom break. The teacher walks by and grabs my arm, telling us that she always likes the hall-lingerers the best because they are always the most interesting.
Then I have a break, where I'm prone to wander around the Art Institute with Pappy, or find new places to eat and sunny places to sit.
Then it's my creative writing class at night. It's only successful, educated, young folks, which is the worst. The first day, I walked back and forth in front of the door several times, then walked back downstairs to stall/verify that I was indeed in that classroom. I tried to pretend I was a different person, a confident person, and kept giving myself pep talks. Eventually I made my way in and it's not been too terrible. Only mildly terrible.

I've also inadvertently begun working again. I was supposed to just go in for a few training shifts but now it appears I'm on the schedule every week - like a real job or something. I already miss early retirement. Long, lazy mornings working my way through multiple cups of coffee, stacks of books or pages of writing. I miss the walks and bike rides. I miss cooking all of my meals. Volunteering at the retirement home.
Now it's rushing to and fro, eating old nutella croissants and drinking lukewarm coffee.
[Ok. I suppose it could be worse. Because an old nutella croissant is still a nutella croissant.]

Oh, these summer days are flying by so fast.