I picture your face in the back of my eyes

    This was an odd weekend, even for someone whose weekends are rarely what I would term 'normal'. It started with a medical emergency (which turned out not to be so dramatic, but still plenty painful), which transformed the following two days from what I'd planned--packing, cleaning, shopping--into something completely different. Most notably, I've slept nearly the entire weekend, easily 2/3 of yesterday and half of today. (Yes, I'm anticipating trouble tonight.) When I was awake, I've done little except make halfhearted stabs at mixes (finishing this one), read (two rather predictable suspense novels, a slim book of poetry [Carl Phillips' Double Shadow: Poems, which was tremendously good], and an overdue re-reading of the National Book Award-winning Three Junes by Julia Glass), and pace. If I was a cat, you'd swear there was stormy weather coming. I cannot settle down.    

    Reinforcing, though not accountable for, the mood are three things. First: I've spoken to no one since Friday evening except for the man who delivered my flowers yesterday afternoon (a wonderful, welcome surprise) and the girl who delivered my pizza last night, and those were not long conversations. This much literal solitude is both instructive and dangerous. Second: although I've been nearly desperate to drink--for no specific reason that I can put my finger on--supplies are low and it was absolutely beyond me to have someone else bring alcohol to me. It's just as well, considering the damage I can do to myself when I haven't been drinking. And third, and probably most significantly: I've been informed just now that a branch has broken off my family tree. Not entirely unexpectedly, but it's still a blow of sorts. It makes me wonder what is real, what is permanent (or even trustworthy), whether anything merits leaning on or if it really is better to be completely self-contained. As much as it is possible to be.

[title quotation from "Anna Molly", one of the songs on that mix, by Incubus]