When there is not enough trouble at hand, I begin to borrow it from tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. I haven't been like this in a while. This whole last week is something I need to recover from. I'm starting to feel a bond to Virginia Woolf. Reading her letters helps me. In the epilogue to her journal I read there is a time where she stops writing altogether and just goes mad. It is when her first novel is due to come out. This makes me feel more normal. It seems like I've spent a long time overcoming a great deal of mess in my life, and now there's a sort of green light and things are going beautifully. Suddenly there is a lull in the space, like the calm water, and it does not put me at peace. I want to do something to stir the water, and then I feel like a shark is getting ready to jump out of it. I wait for the letter that tells me, "Mr. Gibson, we do not want your book anymore. This does not reflect on your abilities as an author...." I wait from the letter from the University that says, "Though we hear your book was rejected, and that you are useless for any real work outside of academia, we regret to inform you that we found someone better for our program and you are are doomed to a year of scrabbling around for something else to fill your time..."

The weather is shifting. Winter is giving way to spring, and everything in me is shifting. I'm recovering from a series of high strung days where I've felt like a champagne glass struck by a fork.