It’s really been hard to know where to start here. Some things in life are moving but can’t be talked about. Other things are not moving — so there’s nothing to talk about. Still other things are moving and could be talked about, except I am sick of talking about them, things like teaching this semester. So, somehow, time trickled on, weeks adding to weeks, and here we are. Here’s some stuff, though:
Plans are still afoot for Iceland over the winter break. This is going to be a lot more complicated than I had expected, back in the palmy days when I thought I could drive up to the Twin Cities and catch a direct flight to Keflavik, but all still totally manageable. This all assumes that travel to Iceland is possible, but I am vaccinated and I am hoping that I’ll have a booster by then.
There are also plans for me to drive to Rice Lake over fall break. It’s a lot of driving, but why do I have this new car, if not to take an occasional trip?
I can’t quite bring myself to start anything new until I hear (finally) from my editor on American Tour. For the nonce, I am instead working on a fellowship application to complete the short story collection, which (I think) needs at least another two stories.
Fall is starting, padding in on little bug feet. The next couple of days will be in the 90s, but last week and next week were/will be ten degrees cooler, so it feels as though the trend of the weather is cooler. We had a long, hot and humid summer, not at all the hard, dry wind from the south that I have always loved so much about Kansas summers.
My reading has been a mix of Arthur Ransome (still — there are a lot of Swallows and Amazons books!), Kerry Greetstreet mysteries (ditto), and oddball older books, most recently marcel Brion’s Waystations of the Night (from the 40s), and a 1913 travelogue from Iceland.
I’m sorry this isn’t a witty or thoughtful musing! Another time. Some days (and weeks), life points away from introspection. I’m okay with that, still I apologize.