I woke up in a slight fluster having had two dreams. The first was of a story to write: an academic article about how, when photography came, we stopped seeing the other world. The second was that I was looking on Facebook and saw an item whose font had changed and realised it was describing how a dear friend’s sister had gone for a hip examination, something went wrong, and she was left in absolutely agony, and died.
We decided to stay in and had a quiet sort of day. I finished my book, Benedict Anderson’s memoirs, and would like to recommend all graduate students in anthropology, area studies and related fields, read it as part of their induction. We went for an afternoon walk which was pleasant but also a bit difficult: it was along the path we went on horseback and turned out to be much longer and steeper than we had realised. Also the clouds had closed in around us, so it was damp and close and cool.
We went for a swim; the water was cold but eventually, inch by inch, I made my way in.
And then back, for a final, beautiful sunset through the mists.