I'm reading a fabulous book and I'm covered with mosquito bites. I don't know where they come from. It's a familiar seasonal thing. They're not bedbugs—yeesh—just same old same old.

Earlier today I'm out in front of our antique store hangout with K the store owner and my brother, telling a story, waving my arms around and suddenly my new watch decides to advise me that it seems like I have "taken a hard fall" and wants to know if I desire an emergency call. It's true I teeter around because of my mild vertigo but I'm careful. I point it out, this new alarm thingerie, but K, who I happen to be facing, barks fuck that! tell it to go fuck off! Well, OK. And of course then Tim's gotta tell me all about our neighborhood friend's mishap hiking around Mt. Tamalpais four days ago, helicopter rescue and everything, although the helicopter actually couldn't get to her down the ravine so they had to try something different but there were like 18 rescue workers. She survived, she's in the hospital with an orbital fracture, double vision, collarbone displaced, bruised up the ying yang.

Here I am, just staying up too late and scratching my bites...

Fucking Mother's Day again; this time I'm 0 for 3. So I make up revenge posts and never air them. I mean, just for the sake of conversation, what's the potential downside of telling your hippie dippy mother who doesn't believe in made-up holidays Happy Mother's Day! 

She says: whatever.

Or the upside: she smiles and gives you a hug.

I'm envisioning a landscape that's particularly cunning and I spin a quick dream of how that might be my yard. Just as quickly I abandon it. I look around me; instead of expanding, getting released from those little traps where you stick your fingers in and they get stuck, it's the opposite. I'm getting tighter. It's not uncomfortable. Not at all claustrophobic, but it's clear that it's the equivalent of back in the womb.

There's my knitting.There's my books all snug on their shelves in front of me, beside me. If I were to get up off the couch, I'd go forward six steps make a left and another 15 steps to the stairs make another left.

If I was hungry, down there is that bowl of dough balls in the fridge, waiting to be squashed and heated and made into whatever it is: tortilla roti naan whatever you wanna call it.

As my grandpa Birl would say, it'll eat.