In the glooming.

By 7:30 a.m., I was awake; by 7:45, I was up; by 8:20, I was writing. My internal clocks seem, after all these years, to be settling back and back and back. Who knows where they'll stop? I've already gotten ready for bed tonight, and will likely sleep as soon as I've finished Sigrid Undset's Gunnar's Daughter (1909), a twentieth-century version of Icelandic saga literature (which, as some of you know, is dear to my heart, though I've been out of contact with it for years). Tonight's early bedtime, I think, is mostly a function of having had a day of feeling a little off, striding around town doing miscellaneous errands--I mean, so many errands that I was grateful to have started my new little notebook so that I didn't forget anything. And the last one was to the grocery, to find ginger ale to heat up at home. What are my rituals for when I feel randomly unwell? Can I get the ingredients I need?

Turns out that grocery store brand ginger beer--though it looks all wrong--works just fine when what's needed on a dark afternoon is a hot drink and a warm bed. So too does the local tea purveyor's organic peppermint tea. By dinner, I was eating the salmon-and-mushroom crepe with aplomb.

Today: 778 words.