1. I tried keeping my robe on a hook on the bedroom door but every time I passed it I thought it was Slender Man.
2. During my elective short-term "time off," I've embraced only sloth and soap operas. I tried feeling bad about this but eventually gave up: it wasn't worth the effort of caring who was watching me, since I don't believe in omniscient deities (except Stephen Sondheim) and don't think non-stop activity is the key to a good life. Also nobody was watching me (except Slender Man).
I spend most of the day lying on the porch reading magazines and trashy novels, and sometimes I move inside to the sofa to take a nap. Sometimes I go to Target and walk around. Sometimes I go to a movie. At night I watch reruns of General Hospital and Hart to Hart. People who keep asking me what I do during the day: this is it.
I very much subscribe to the theory that you find what you need when you need it, and in this year of constant change and dramatic, occasionally painful life upheaval, I indeed found what I needed: familiarity, comfort, and home. My summer has essentially been a rewind of 1982, minus my mother yelling at me to go outside and play.
3. This opener by Dwight Garner, in a review of Donald Hall's final book:
Donald Hall, who died on June 23 at 89, was not a particularly nimble poet. His verse had a homely, bucolic, beans-on-the-woodstove quality. He was more cabbage than tulip. To borrow an analogy from baseball, a sport he loved, he was the sort of batter who got on base thanks to walks, bunts, bloopers into right field and a good deal of hustle. He was a plugger.
In a single paragraph, why I love both Donald Hall and Dwight Garner.