Really not an unsuccessful week: a good supervisory session, two colloquia, part of one good seminar –
a trip to Lausanne to look into a new exchange partner for our department; a lot of complicated back and forth beforehand, because Switzerland no longer is part of the EU exchange system – did someone tell me that six months ago? I can't remember – shows you how much I'm on top of things – but meeting S. was ultimately fun: she had also had a bad Tuesday (the window of her car smashed in) and, when we realised we should be commiserating rather than feeling put upon, we ended up as friends, to the point where she said as I got on the train: now send me a text when you get home to tell me you're okay –
and a day or two just lying around in this small but pleasant Zürich apartment. Not feeling terrible, not feeling great – some of that 'wasting time' stuff in the background; though not as much as I used to impose on myself.
And yes, various chunks of final (?) editing for the Stäbler book. Which tome, which project, may – repeat may – be done. Nearly.
I suppose, if the book does kill me, it will be something like: the mail will come, there will be a package, I will open it – and as my hand touches the book, a piano from a crane outside my office will swing wildly, crashing through the window –
The crane will, of course, have ACME printed across it.
•••
So: a cluster of events where I feel as though things make sense, are not difficult, and I can stand solidly among the things I need to know, to do:
and another cluster of minor experiences where I lie in bed for a day or so, wondering when my digestion will stop grinding dysfunctionally away.
I guess we just assume this is a side effect of liver toxicity? Or a psychosomatic response to finishing the book? Or... a combination of not much exercise and a body that is increasingly annoyed that it doesn't get much attention.
And how would you tell the difference between all those...
•••
Some sharp, strongly outlined moments: climbing the hill to V.'s house in the Swiss winter sun, I am twenty minutes early, so walk further down this street that cuts along the top of a hill, snow and trees and bright, bright sun coming at me almost from the side...
The colloquium at the Jung Club – the old room filled with books, a casually shared lunch in the kitchen –
the kindly optometrist who fixed my glasses – no, more than that: who fiddled with them for several minutes to make sure they were in really good condition, then refused to accept any money –
the outdoor fruit and vegetable stand, with some things I didn't even recognise – I'll cut into them sooner or later and find out just what the heck they are –
•••
They're little things.
But perhaps the things that should be getting me out of bed – and calming the body, so that it can move without the dislocation of mild illness...
•••
It is, on the whole, a good time.
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