27 February 2002 - 10:15 p.m. (second entry today)

I just went to move the whites to the dryer, and felt something clanking under the last bit of underwear. Too large to be a button or a coin - dear God, had I laundered another rock?

It turned out to be half a bar of hotel soap. (I think I'd stuck it inside a pocket during a tidying frenzy.)

So: I just washed half a bar of soap. I don't like any of the metaphors or analogies this is bringing to mind.

On a happier note, I can finally see the surface of my desk at home and I can hear the raspy whirr of the espresso machine as the Beautiful Young Man brews two cups. I made myself a small salad for dinner (mixed greens and avocado chunks), with butter and honey on bread for dessert, and sat on the sofa reading Saveur (lambing in New Zealand, Vietnamese feasting in Santa Clara) before tackling the bills and the chores.

And trying not to succumb to the urge to curl up into a knot and wail. I am feeling frayed. It seems much longer than just a month ago when I decided I would go away next week; given that I really have been having fantasies of ignoring the return half of the ticket, it is a very good thing that I will be on the road in less than forty-eight hours.

Looking back at my twenty-one year old self, I think, well, you never imagined yourself in quite this place, did you? Both less and more content than I expected.