Got a ride home from a very late shift last night, read in bed and then woke up slowly this morning. Made breakfast, with what feels like a twisted ankle, then came up and finished copying out the hand-written edits of the first chapter of the novella I want to finish.

It’s a nice day out; I’m waiting for the album that’s playing (You Forgot It in People) to finish, and then I’m going out for a walk. I think I’ll go down to the bog, which is lovely in the late autumn, something mystical and pure about it. A sort of quiet and an implied if not always literal mist hanging over the boggy earth. Memories of my early days weaved into the implied fog. It’s nice, is what I mean.

Was walking along those boardwalks with a friend who was sleeping on my couch that weekend, few weeks ago. We ran into an old teacher who I had in high school and hadn’t seen for half my life, I said hi and though she didn’t know who I was when I spoke, she remembered me when I said my name and how I knew her. She was surprised I remembered her at all. Memory is a funny thing: we were looking at each other from completely different sides of life. I wonder what was in her mind after that.

Thee novella I plan to bring to Montreal to work on is about memory, too. I think about memory a lot, and the way people weave each other together through them. This one’s more about collective memory, though. I’ll probably say more about it when I’m more into it, or once I’m over there. A private place for a week and no work shifts around; productive bliss.