Pig and farm report

I kept busy today but my brain refuses facts refuses the fog that feels like cotton refuses the noise the muted hum of a typical Sunday with its repeated news and its weird 

yesterday I was inflicted with a terrible kind of self pity that led to me to wandering the house Ophelia-like in my white nightgown and also eating six or seven meals I lost count not big meals I had a huge salad at one point then I had a half a cup of brown rice with broccoli tossed in then I had three baby bok choy that I sautéed then later I had a huge soft pretzel on a bee plate and much later still I had two corn tortillas with butter and pretty soon I started to feel like crap and I still feel like crap I think it began with me trying to make my own iced coffee and I'm still not sure how much coffee I drank inside my experiment but I couldn't sleep last night I dreamed I found a huge U shaped bright orange pumpkin with octopus tentacles wriggling around the tentacles were grabbing at me and I was grabbing them and they were slimy 

I was making pretzels and when I pulled my hands out of the dough they looked like hooves and I was a disgusted with myself I felt like my life had just opened its eye I felt pain in my back and the weight of writing from a place of meaty violence the wolf world holds me in its wet soft mouth I worry that I might be the last person to believe the plague is behind us I might be the last person to leave my house into normal into the after I seem so much more worried than everyone else barely fledged and now carried into another season foolish and sentimental 

if I am reading one paragraph at a time does it still count as reading? I read this fantastic work in the Yale Review by Dana Levin not a long piece but it too held me in its teeth and took me two hours I am so glad I finished reading it’s deeply moving my difficulty with reading right now breaks me I feel not here like a forklift ran over my jello brain in an underground parking lot like my soul is a ghost limb begging for a scratch not being able to read refuses blood and butter salt and honey I chide myself for it here but believe me it is the worst punishment my brain could have concocted for me it is not a joke but I have to hush now Ophelia is back knocking like a hungry wasp on my screen

there is the little house in the tree I took this picture by hiding myself on a side street in plain sight you can see the little white picket fence they’re building and the basketball hoop attached to the stairs I feel pretty sure this place holds deep magik like carnivals and Florida and rivers

my son has asked me three times now if we’re going to have a Christmas tree this year and I assure him yes each time and that’s all I know of the future that question and its exclaimed answer but will I be last to go into the green?