Sixty hours now since I last left the house. At 3pm yesterday I opened the door a crack and took a breath. The man sauntering past could have been a prison guard. An example of how our situations produce the pigments that colour our confinement.
I'm still reading Lewycka's A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian. A somewhat dented piece of writing, but its cylinders work, and it is horrifically funny. Forgot how Russian, Ukrainian and Slavic people have a penchant for the abject. I read a passage last night that reminded me of Dostoyevski's "A Nasty Story" (1862).
Five minutes ago I sent my editor my previews for the Feb-March issue of Preview. Seven this time, after the past seven pandemic-era issues had my down from eight to six. Things are looking up!
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