Desultory, occasionally ridiculous lunch in Moss Landing (“What’s the matter with us today? We’re like the two stooges”), and a walk past the cemetary to Evelyn’s boutique where, cashless, I look around and admire…

It has become fashionable in the Moss Landing cemetary to dress the graves in bits of fluttery plastic, silver streamers, toy propellers, and bright plastic flowers—making little effort to pretend they are flowers; a riot of color.

At 2:30, shadows already stretch out over the field in front of the house.

Preparing for an afternoon of online work. A telecommuting job, which will own my eyes, shoulders, and brain for the rest of the evening.

Mitigation: muffins, tea, getting up to stretch, running in a circle around the house, some kind of trancey, assembly line music.

The “Black Madonna of Czestochowa” (see Sunday) is not working out. The Madonna is mocking me. Dear Black Madonna: Stop mocking me. Please mitigate the day.

Random line of poetry from my bookshelf:

"There is a fat man
          in a palanquin
I carry.
             The man is me
and I carry him." 

 ---Chad Sweeney, excerpt from "The Great Poems," Arranging the Blaze