Arithmetic is not my strong point. If anyone read my blog yesterday you'll have figured out what I did, too late, that my figuring on the time difference was wrong, but my intentions are right on and they work. Now as ever, all I have to do is stick to it, be disciplined. It takes a a lot of discipline to be disciplined, and, like, every day. The thing is, it's hard to be disciplined in all directions at once.You win some, you lose some. You have to choose your priorities, and then you have to choose your uppermost priority and then try to stick to it. And then the sticking points sort of dissolve, or lose their stickum or something. What happens it that I start out strong and get a few things done, and then I sort of fold, spindle and mutilate, by mid-afternoon. I think it was Moss Hart, but it could have been any number of notorious late-sleepers, that nothing important happens before noon, so why get up? I, on the other hand, wish that nothing important happens between noon and three o'clock. After that, a semblance of discipline returns. What time are you going to get up tomorrow?

You know the story about the farmer's wife who was happy that Daylight Saving Time was on again because the cows needed the extra sunshine. Two things to note there: I don't think that Saskatchewan, which is where the cows are (?), honours DST. And two, why is it always a woman who makes these charming, egregious errors? I don't really like DST, at least not until later in the season. I am an early riser and swim at 6 a.m. The sky was getting a little brighter until this morning; now, it's pitch black again, very depressing. But here's the good news: for the next week, perhaps, I will be waking earlier and can use the extra time to write. That's nice. SOW, it's Sunday. I get the Sunday New York Times. (Happiness is the Sunday New York Times). Talk about blogs1 My inner dialogue is running full throttle as I read the Review section. There's a man who has reduced his living space to 400 and some square feet, with a pull-out bed and ten shallow bowls to eat from. Years ago I wrote a book called ENOUGH when I divested myself of most of my goods and moved into a winterized (read: cold) cottage on a lake in Muskoka (Canada). I kept my books, though, and they were good insulation but I needed a jack under the floor to support their weight. I should write more about that. Tomorrow, when I wake earlier.