Tuesday, November 18

I find myself wishing sometimes that Vincent Ferrini had a blog. That would give Karl a run for his money. Saw V.'s nephew Henry when I went to work today, he was going off on a walk in Dogtown with my boss. Saw the new office set up (about) as my sister arrived for reflexology. In a different room.

I'm looking forward to meeting Nick Piombino next week when he comes here to read. Maybe he'll even come out to Gloucester. If so, I'll cook.

The splinter I took out of my finger yesterday left a big hole. A big hole that hurts. It interferes with my bowhold and my knitting. It hurts when I do dishes. It hurts me so.

Friday my grandmother from Hawaii flies in. I am picking her up at the airport and will miss Mark's reading. Her coming makes me nervous about my father-- she is feeble herself and it makes me wonder just how bad he is if she is coming out on such short notice. But I miss her and love her and look forward to sharing a bottle of wine with her. I wonder how long she is staying.

A friend's grandfather died last week. He was a great man and will be missed. Friend says he just got weaker and weaker then died. Bodies do that, I guess, just give up.

No comments: