perfect day

Pure nothingness.  It's all I've wanted for a very long time, and today pure nothingness was mine.  Which is to say that I did not rush to the gym, because I'm still not capable of gym-ing.  Which is to say that the house was already clean, so that I did not further clean it.  Which is to say that I actually listened to the kind soul who wrote Friday with an assignment to say, "You have time, so don't rush through it over the weekend." Which is to say that it was me and my shelves full of books, most of the day.  Me and my books and magazines.  Me and my iPAD edition of the New York Times.  Me and other people's words, and the blare of the horse show music from down the road.  A slight, coaxed breeze.  A friend taking the time to write a note about something that meant a whole lot to me.  (Her endless generosity.  Her honest interest.  Her calm.)



I read Istanbul, by Orhan Pamuk, a book I had started reading months ago.  I read the Times.  I read The New Yorker and celebrated its review of Philadelphia's own newly relocated Barnes.  I read the first fifty pages of Imagine (and hope to read the rest quite soon).  I made a pile of all the other books I plan to read between now and Monday.



And sometimes I slept between pages, and sometimes I daydreamed, and never did I chastise myself for being lazy.  



And I wasn't sick this afternoon.  And I felt better than I've felt for what has been such a long time.



Perfect.  Day.