Up early, downstairs, soup's out again still cold. Me dressed. Abby dressed. Forget shoes and sweaters and keys. Gather quarters and leave.

Walk downtown past the smells. Smells of caramel and bread and coffee and donuts. Past churches and chairs on the sidewalk and large appliances out for pickup. To the cafe. Espresso for me, sesame cookie for Abby. Sicilian talk of soccer and sox.

Out of money. Go home or get more? To the bank then to Two Sisters. Too many dishes at home and the instant decision not to wash them yet, not just yet. Call GL. Breakfast for me and Abby, G and G talking art and crotches. Twice as much as breakfast in the Fort.

Walk home, sometimes raining, just a drop here and there. Spitting, really. Telling Abigail the names of flowers. This is a morning glory, this is a rose. Maybe we'll eat every meal out today and I won't do any dishes. This is hibiscus. Tired of measuring my value in cleanliness. Look at the sunflowers.

Graves of sea captains with ships on them. Ben Pine, Columbia. Ordered yarn last night, super-bulky alpaca. Colors like the sunrise. Seashell pink and thistle down and starlight blue. I may not clean at all today. The sky is openning and I've had toomuch coffee. That won't keep me from drinking more. Abigail making wookie noises and watching break dancing on television. Something's got to give.

Garden thinned, leaves falling on the back deck. Wool finally feeling good in my hands, needles clicking quicker. Baby walking half-way across rooms, kicking balls and kissing dolls. Bath in the pool outside, wind whispers and neighbors chatter, bubbly hair and foam alphabet.

Soup weather. Soup season, at least. Cut the leeks under running water, clean the dirt between the layers. Baby walking and falling and crying. Too tired to be awake but not sleepy. Melt butter in a pot. Add leeks. Put Abigail upstairs and listen to her sing to herself. Sing to the cat. The window. The clothes she pulls off her father's dresser and into the crib. Coos and quiet and coos.

Today is Wednesday. What does that mean? It doesn't mean anything anymore. Water the pants with water from the rain barrel. Add the bowl of vegetable ends to the compost pile. Pay the bills. At least most of them. Wash the diapers, hang them in the sun. Wash the tub. Knit a swater for the naked doll.

Abigail is quiet now, quiet for some time. The leeks smell like they may be ready for broth and potatoes. My sewing room (or laundry room) is clean now, piles for each project: the shirt quilt for G and K, the chicken quilt I have to start. Finished knitting projects. Knitting projects that just need finishing. Knitting projects just barely started. Notions. Notions! Abigail is cooing again.

So many tomatoes I am thinking of canning.

The problem with not paying for television: the pictures stay the same on the weekend. The same people drinking water, boarding buses, finding family. Nothing new to report. Nothing new.

I finally found something I can do. Quilts for refugees sleeping in air-conditioned sports arenas. Sleeping on cement floors. Finally something I can do with my own hands. There is a prayer in doing things, in caring to do them well.

President Bush, how dare you talk about Gasoline while there are still people stranded. Babies and elderly dying of neglect. Masses looking for buses to take them away.

How dare you.