Migration, Rest

In my canvas bag are things for dealing with the weather, and things for dealing with the conference.  Umbrella - one phalanx snapped already by a sudden blow of wind, sunglasses, hankie, lip balm, sweater, hat, a plastic bag - all have made their way into the canvas sack and back out.  Similarly, the bag has at times housed books just bought, books to have signed, the small and the large notebook, the camera, several free-floating pens, a growing collection of change in the bottom, a mint, a chocolate kiss, a wallet.

I migrate back and forth between buildings, between food and words and texts, between the main buildings and the dorms, brain growing full, mind growing tired, thighs cramping from the unexpected exercise.  (I always walk too fast for my legs, trying to avoid missing something, trying to be in two places at once.)  Yesterday the migration slowed to the pace of a palpitating heart, as I tacked from shade to shade at a pace so stately I felt almost as if I was drifting, half dreaming, in a haze of heat.  During the afternoons I bolt from tree to tree, seeking the protection of their leaves like a squirrel, dodging the monsoonal flows pouring down from a thunderous sky, retreiving the broken wings of the umbrella left in the dorm - again.

Finally this morning the activity, mental and physical, overtook me, and I slept through alarm clock and sunrise and breakfast, and ended up welcoming the day over a too-large, too-sweet chai and a bag of coffee cake.  There is still a day to go.