Several weeks of foolish common viral illness. Flu, then head cold, then almost well but not quite, and so then bronchitis and some days of fearful bedrest imagining a lurking pneumonia (an old enemy from a former life). Now the lingering cough and return of the headcold double-blast. How much phlegm can the body of a stupid poet generate? Gallons, certainly, by now.

I have had to get substitutes for my this-week's shifts at the FriendsOfTheLibrary used book shop I coordinate so I can concentrate on really getting well. Although of course I spent every day here catching up housework put by in my bookshop frenzies elsewhere. On the weekend I drove to a remote ranch and bought many near-new and vintage volumes for my own business, and another canvasbagful from a sale in town. I had a fever but went out anyway - such opportunities are rare hereabouts - and I have paid for my folly healthwise while benefitting in terms of business: every purchase was a gem, worth its weight in dollar signs.

I've got to get well, though, and so today I'm back in bed with cough drops and lomatium tinctures and my trusty Vicks Vapoinhaler. And every cat and dog in the house, and brotherB frantically crayoning his colorbooks across the room. Last night as I got in bed he said, "Sore throat? Drink water ..." motioning at the same time with his big flat fingers in his peculiar pidgeon-sign language. His concern is worth worlds. And I take seriously his health advice, always. His instincts are good.

I do have a book to mail today, but maybe husbandSkip can take it to the post office for me later. Meanwhile I try to lower the flame on my hyperactivity and keep still, keep still, drink water, pet pets, read Robert A. Johnson's Inner Work on using dreams and active imagination, keep Eno on the headphones, and daydream that soon I will resume writing, soon I will make a garden.