I awoke around midnight and learned that the Nationals won the World Series. I had fallen asleep again to Kenneth Clark’s Civilisation. Francesco Bernadone (St Francis of Assisi) Giotto and Dante were among the people Ken discussed. Thus inspired, I ventured downstairs and picked up my copy of The Inferno, and resumed reading at Canto 21. I felt as if I had returned home (not to Hell), but to the world of serious reading and scholarship. What we modernista are doing, by neglecting these worka are starving our souls.

The coffee tastes good, every decaffeinated sip. The early morning hours, empty of the jackals’ howls, offer serenity.

I will go back upstairs shortly, perhaps sleep alone, perhaps climb back in the big bed with J.

When dawn comes, I hope to give some hours to throwing away and donating, resuming the tidying, begun in late Summer. The truth is that the clutter has me blocked emotionally. It is a metaphorical obesity, from which, for me, the other arises.

It takes work to create and carve our earthly homes. If we do not define our spaces, others will. It is as if my mother still dresses me, like I was an eternal toddler. I am no longer in love with old newspapers, and carpets filled with grit and crumbs.

I have enough. Throw it away. It won’t be missed. I will not give Amazon any more of my money to fill my emptiness.

Beauty beckons.