It isn't that things aren't happening in my life right now, because they are.  But there isn't anything really lyrical or poetic about them, so I don't write.

Having Hannah here has made me appreciate living alone.  I ADORE Hannah --- would do, go, say anything/anywhere for her.  But her things are all over the house.  And we seem to always want the big TV at the same time.  And when she watches a movie, she doesn't (usually) want me in the room with her. I get so lonely sometimes here by myself, but I also get very protective of my time when I'm used to it being my own, and it suddenly isn't.

My reading pace has fallen off a cliff.  I got through Lloyd Jones' Mr. Pip in a breeze;  it is easily the best of the novels I've read so far.  I'm back to non-fiction now for "K": Mike Kim's Escaping North Korea.  Scary, scary stuff.

Knitting is hit or miss.  I've begun and then ripped out at least a dozen things because they simply weren't going well.  I did make a pair of toddler socks I quite like:
and a shawlette/bandana whose self-striping couldn't have been more perfectly placed:


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