Suddenly I know the seasons have changed. That last rocket between sixty and ninety and sixty again was the end of summer at long last, and the official start of autumn isn’t far away — Second Harvest, or Mabon, or just the equinox if you’re scientifically-minded above all else.
I think I fell off the roller coaster, because I have not felt well at least for a weekend. I hope I haven’t caught my first cold of the season. I hope the frog in my throat is just an irritation brought on by cold, dry air, the sore throat ditto and a hint of hard flare besides. Do you know that’s one of the signs?
I had a summer’s reprieve from the worst of it. Waking up covered in sweat, swallowing thistles, the dreams, the hangovers that aren’t (I don’t drink) — my knees — you know I was too zonked to venture out for shooting this weekend? Well, I’ll rest up and hope that everything resolves by next weekend. I’d like to keep in practice.
Phone calls to make. First to Planned Parenthood. Then I should really knock out one PCP and one psych a day. Two hours ’til standard close of business. I hate leaving messages, too. But if I don’t do it there’ll be hell to pay here at home. Hell and a half.