After my ineptitude with respect to my recent attempt at relaxation (otherwise known as ending the futz), the next day I returned Ludlum to the library, his masculine melodrama unplumbed, and picked up Poetics of Imagining Modern to Post-modern by Richard Kearney. I just seem to be in a space where the novel cannot participate. Poetry works, and non-fiction of a specific sort, but not the novel.

All I really did for the evening of the futzing post is drift along on a undercurrent of ennui, went to bed, slept, woke snuffling, then spent the next day (yesterday, after the doctor’s visit) drifting, less futzily (nice word don’t you think), on a mixture of poems read and reread, snoozing at the beach in the shade, drinking iced coffee, and beginning Kearney. Sometimes bad moods just have to be let alone to blossom – even if what you get is a milk vetch, dandelion or morning glory vine.

Today has been much of the same. I had a meeting this morning that went rather well, but after that I went to my favourite Greek Taverna for a take-away breakfast (fava beans in a tomatoe-garlic sauce, tabouli and a little black olive tapenade) mixed with some bread and iced espresso (sweet) from the pâtisserie a few doors down – oh my the wonders of being human, having a little money and living in Vancouver. I zoomed off to the beach with my food, sat in the shade, ate, drank and (re)read Sylvia Legris’ iridium seeds (gorgeous!).

After that, I went to another coffee shop, tea this time and Kearney. Hours worth of a lovely breeze, mixed sun and shade, pleasant, mostly smiling faces, an interesting book and no obligation to speak.

The wondrous world of a several-day futz.