Today is apparently a day for avoiding the fact that I am dry, that I cannot find the well, that I may have lost the well, that maybe I never had any well. Even attempting the tricky, illogic of finding a path to the well is full of sidetracking, pitfalling, distracting (When did I care about the ideal non-ticking travel clock to put in my bathroom? Why am I labeling the freshly ground peanut butter with its carb count for my daughter's type 1 diabetes?). I have no faith that the thing I set out to do this morning will help. Like the dream that fades before you roll out of bed, I had an idea that watching the Basquiat documentary might, might, I don't know what. So instead of that I am here. Writing this. When I need to drag my unbeliever to the woods.
Bring Me a Little Water, Sylvie