Much happening. Last week a day spent in transit to and from a city 100 miles to the north so husband could have outpatient surgery on his eyelids, which drooped so low he could barely see. Then (and ongoingly) the followup, treating his eyes four times a day with antibiotic ointments and moisture goop.

Last week also I was befriended in the Bookworm shop by a local person who is an alien abductee. His stories are hair-raising and plausible-sounding. He suffers frequent and severe depressions due to his lifetime of experiences at the hands of malevolent extraterrestrials. We also discussed eastern philosophy and he insisted on lending me one of his Native American flutes. I must only play it in nature, and then listen for the reactions of the birds. I may do this. If I can find some nature.

Friday FedEx brought me a (very) used laptop computer. This changes everything, and soon I can clean out Sylvia the writing trailer and get back to work, and this time finish my projects.

But my joy in finally receiving the new-to-me tool was tempered by grief: when I went out last week to give my surely thawed-and-hungry goldfish their first feeding of spring, I found to my horror that a crack (or something) had developed in the great Rubbermaid tub, and when the thaw came the ice in the crack must have liquified and allowed the water to run out. I found a dry trough and my beloved fish dead and dry on the bottom of it. I ran away, sick with shock, and wept all morning. This was our fourth winter together and I had looked forward to greeting my babies again this spring. The 200-gallon trough had still been full only a few days before.

This is the second mass fishkill I've endured here (the first due to poisoning from raw blackrubber hoses). I told husband I will get an aquarium now, instead.

Abductee recommended I use the flute in ceremony for my deceased fishes. Maybe I will.