Today, I spent several hours at two different occasions on the phone with two of the smartest, kindest, most creative people I know. I feel charged up and inspired. Funny, it just struck me that they are both writers, and they’re both blonde. If there were any two women to slaughter the stereotypes of the ditzy blonde, it’s Simona and Visha.

Simona’s hair is light and wispy, wavy in just the right way, and it always looks perfect, like a halo. I once saw her after she’d spent the day at the beach, and her hair had taken on a windswept look that stylists spend hours creating for movie stars in movies about coastal romance. When I spend the day at the beach, my hair stands straight on end, the frizz propping up the rest of my hair in what I can only describe as Wind Tunnel Chic (well, without the “Chic” part). Simona speaks in an almost-whisper, with such a calming voice I always feel like everything will be just fine, if only because she is in the world. She talks about spirituality, about reality, about Congo and Darfur, and she quotes literature and tells me about philosophy, always having the decency to pretend that I already knew the complex concepts she’s outlining for me, listing off philosophers as if I know exactly who she’s talking about and might chime in with a reference to the philosopher’s third book, which I just happened to have read last week (when she talks about Kierkegaard, however, I do get rather animated). And in return for her brilliance, I tell her about my book, the fits and starts and endless rewrites, and she does not think my existence invalid because I don’t have a full-time job with benefits.

Visha’s hair is straight and strawberry blonde, and she’s got this wonderful radio voice, distinctive, a little husky, memorable. She’s spunky and fiery, but incredibly and unfailingly reasonable. She knows how many female directors have been nominated for Best Director in the Oscars, and she has trained two very large dogs into thinking that she—petite, adorable Visha—is bigger than they are. I think she’s magic. And funny, dear heavens, have I mentioned that Visha’s hilarious? If you know her, you already know she’s got a sharp wit, but you also know that she’s unendingly kind. Though I’ve given her plenty of ammunition, never once has she used that humor to make fun of me or to make me feel anything other than entirely good and happy. She cries for people with Alzheimer’s, and she pulls off the side of the road to care for dying dogs hit by cars that long ago sped off. She works at a bookstore, has read probably more books than said bookstore has in its inventory, knows all about experimental film, rails against injustice, defends the defenseless.

How lucky I feel today, not only to have such friends, but to have hours to run down my phone batteries with them, to listen to them and to talk about writing with them, to find out what they think about plot and beginnings and the plight of the MFA workshop. The three of us are trying to do the same thing, really, to struggle with the words on the page, to find the balance between art and life, to find where the line is and to cross it.

This is one of those days with too much to think about. Sentences to write and laundry to do. There is Kierkegaard, a NY Times blog about the difference between depression and despair (Kierkegaard on the Couch).

Jesse goes to get his stitches out today. He had something removed from his back, a little persistent thing, and since the biopsy came back negative I haven’t thought much of it, except to put Vaseline and a band-aid on it every morning. I could not be a nurse, cringing at the sight of the stitches. I don’t know if it was the stitches themselves, or the fact of them on that back, where my stomach says they should not be.

There is the futon; since my in-laws left, I haven’t moved the featherbed off it, so now it’s folded up on the couch, lengthwise, and it dips slightly in the middle, making this perfect little nest, exactly the right thing to take a nap on. Which I did yesterday, a solid hour of staying in exactly the same position, dreaming about something I can’t remember anymore.

And of course, a bit of frustration with myself over the yard sale thing. Jesse got in touch with the lady, and she acted, I don’t know, confused? Said, the money’s in the account. And she was right. It was there. On the one hand, I’m glad I let Jesse handle it. He had what I lacked—compassion, a willingness to suspend judgment. So, letting him take over was the right thing to do. But on the other hand, I wonder, why is it I still can’t keep myself from jumping to conclusions? Why am I so quick to see the bad in people, to think the worst? Yes, it looked bad. I’ll give myself that. The bad phone number was what did it. And there still hasn’t been an explanation for that. But, goodness, I of all people should know there’s an answer for everything, there’s a reason, whether it’s obvious or not. So, I’m sheepish today over this, the fact that I couldn’t extend just a bit of grace and wait before thinking I knew everything I needed to in this situation. And, the story of the servant whose debts are forgiven, going straight out and throwing someone else in jail because of what he was owed. Ugh.

(But, Michael, what you suggested about the local crime ring is probably true, and once they knew I was hot on their trail, they aborted the mission, put the money back in the account. I’m sure that’s the most reasonable explanation.)

I saw a shooting star last night. Well, it didn’t appear to be shooting as much as it seemed to be falling. It seemed so close. Ridiculously fast. There in one part of the second, and gone in the next. Maybe it wasn’t a shooting star after all, though I’m not sure what else would make light do that. So, that is what I’ll land on today, my day of many thoughts to think, and while I do laundry I’ll try to get reoriented, to remember to have perspective. And, because I have too much to do, I will try very very hard not to take a nap.

This is the day: the morning spent studying before the sun was really up; the mid-morning spent babysitting, pushing a stroller around a lovely, idyllic neighborhood with brick houses that are all different; a trip to the library to pick up books on philosophy. Simona told me about these little So-and-So in 90 Minutes books, so I grabbed all our library had—Spinoza, Kant, Schopenhauer, Hume, and Sartre. Plus, The Essential Kierkegaard, partly because I’ve read him before and want to read more, and partly because I am in love with his name. Sometimes I say it quietly to myself, just because I love it so much. Kierkegaard. Ah!

Lately, I’ve felt this drive to learn. Maybe it’s being out of school for the longest time, well, ever. A year and four months now since the MFA was finished. I’ve embarked on a personal quest to study the book of Luke forward and backward, and that’s part of my morning study. I also want to learn more about philosophy, about physics, math, history. It’s an almost frantic drive, like there’s something I’ve got to catch up to, but it’s the exact opposite of unpleasant.

Have you heard of iTunes U? I just found it today, and I am beyond thrilled. Tons and tons of courses from a variety of universities and colleges, all for download on iTunes, free! Well, I don’t know if they’re all free, but the ones I was looking at were. I downloaded a seminary course on the Gospels and Acts this morning—forty-some lectures about forty-five minutes to an hour each. And on them, you can hear the professor writing on the white board! I just about died with happiness.

Now I’m listening to the Beatles, Elton John, and Simon and Garfunkel on Pandora, getting ready to make a sandwich for lunch and maybe crack open one of my new library books or keep browsing iTunes U for more “classes” I can take. Oh, what a lovely Friday.