Super long days with mixed feelings. Some surprise and some absolute dismay. Much of what the last three days have felt like is a verse of Lewis Carol being played out with actors in an office environment. There is a walrus. There is no carpenter. I am feeling TS Eliot.

Does Sturgeon Bay have any sturgeon? Eliot's yellow smoke licking window panes ( or something like that) could have been written about my drive from there to here last night. Foggy headlight visions of nihilistic deer in suicide cults running across highway medians taunting me with their mortality.

So ellen alomost died froma bloodclot. She felt that was empowering. She is John-freekin-Wayne in a skirt. She even had the neck scarf. Bob Harlan's skin cancer might be less of a motivational story. No. Much less motivating. Maybe he will change his hair. Sports memorabilia hair. Like a leather football helmet perched on walking-talking shoulders. His greatness under a dome. Vision and brains.

I would like to hear Bob Harlan say "Lay the smack down. . " I think that would be beautiful, though the phrase reeks of primetime simple--mindedness.

Maybe my sense of the absurd is being developed throught this isolation. Could be just my hair growing. I hardly recognize myself in this.