No less than Confucius says that when you love your job, you never have to work a day in your life. But yesterday as I cleaned my house to prepare for Ruby Intuition readings and film events, a big part of me was clamoring for a field of grass without any electronics or obligations in sight. No less than William Carlos Williams says that, with any lined paper, sometimes it’s best to write the other way.
I muscled through the day anyway, even derived pleasure from it, but by its end my protesting back suggested rest was powerfully in order. I’ve learned, finally: My spine is smartest. So I went to bed early even for me, a permakitten on my feet, a golden tumbler of rye by my side, a thick 19th century novel in my paw.
This morning it is 43 degrees. I am making scrambled eggs with kale and Mr. Curry’s nan and tomato chutney, my new favorite weekend breakfast. I am wearing flannel slippers and a purple apron that arrived by post this week. 
I have a high stack of screeners and books in my office and a gorgeously full larder, thanks to a pal who ferried me to Fairway. I even have a huge jar of Oslo’s Thor coffee beans, the very best for French presses. I am by myself but feel encircled by the kindness of friends on every plane.
I’ll see you kittens in April or on Monday, whichever comes first.
