Bad night last night. Hot, humid, sticky weather. Turgid dreams, capped by a sense of suffocation so strong I actually thought I was dying and woke up with a scream. Fortunately, I didn't scream aloud, only jerked upright in bed and put my feet on the floor to reassure myself I was here, here, not dying. Panic attacks at 4am. Not fun. Not a good sign. Outwardly, I do all the right things: look for work, keep the house tidy, care for my pets, keep up with my projects and email. Inwardly, I am sick with fear about the future. Not knowing, and not being able to do anything to affect where we'll go is so much worse than I thought it would be.
Now it's late afternoon, and I'm in my bright red Wisconsin sleepshirt, refusing to go out until sunset. The work crew are banging and clattering next door, repairing the neighbors' roof. The cats are curled up in my study with me, keeping me company in their charmingly selfless way. I can hear John through the open window. He's watching pro women's volleyball and grunting encouragement to the players, most of whom he knows. Yes, the window is located indoors. My putative study used to be the back porch. It got enclosed, I surmise, when they also enclosed the former carport. They left the sturdy outdoor-type window in place, and John and I communicate through it as we pursue our different leisure activities in the house.
Hot. Humid. Close. Yellow light, not the clear blue light of my beloved Pacific Northwest. Everything's too yellow here, sickly and fulsome and overripe. My eyes hurt from the glare, and there's no reason to go outside anyway.
