It’s hard to write when Edith Piaf is on full blast in one’s head.

I started reading the book The Song of Songs by Watchman Nee again. There are so many deep experiences of Christ shown in the book of Song of Songs. But of course, me being me, I’m gonna share with you the trolliest tidbit. In the original language, the maiden called her Beloved the apple tree of trees. But actually it is the bergamot orange tree of trees. That makes many songs rather inconveniently syllabled, doesn’t it?

These blue days have been hurrying by. Yesterday I was on the doorstep of September. Now the midpoint of October is nearing.

My days have a neat pulse. My new job (now my simultaneous employment tally is two TA positions, one research project mentor, one researcher, and one live-in legal guardian) makes me wake up at 6:30 every day to make sure the school bus gets its intended cargo. Then I sound the depths of my coffee mug and study until the dawn melts into day and dusk and dark. My favorite thing about having a big empty house to myself is I can belt as loudly as I want, and no one can hear a thing. Does a tired old tree, finally thrusting itself with abandon to the centuries-long pull of gravity, make a sound in its ultimate arc, if no human is around to hear it?

I catch myself living in the tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Not that my days creep at a petty pace at all, but there are so many bright tempting experiences lurking just out of reach in the dim hereafter that the herenow, full of technicolor Powerpoints on hypopituitarism, cannot hold me in its thrall. This doesn’t often happen to me. Like Dudley Dursley, I’m big on the present. But lately my thoughts, like the Hindenberg, have been adrift, and I don’t know when they’ll deign to land. What if I get sky-sick? How do I alight when I’m so light-headed?

Time is short. A week of quizzes stretches before me. I’m going to abandon these incoherent trains of thought here, like Hillside support facility for the LIRR.