A misly morning. They are promising finer weather. May it come soon. I’m in a little of a grey fug. A late (for me) phone call from work woke me and I struggled, wrestled to get back to sleep. My writing is taking me to dark places and my reading matter of late has been grey. I had to put it down in the end. Anne Sexton wonderful poet but challenging mother, it seems. I’ve tried to lighten it on his advice and am now reading The Living of Charlotte Parker Gilman, famously the author The Yellow Wallpaper – but it appears, of so much more. She was born a hundred years before me. We have one thing in common. It’s nice to read, easy, almost chatty. The introduction was fascinating too. With one quote that stood out – “autobiography is a ‘mode of reading’ as well as a ‘mode of writing'”. That ordering again, that Marina Warner spoke of. It’s truth, it appears, is neither here nor there. We make stories of our lives all the time, after all. The writer of the intro claimed that Gilman ‘didn’t not want anyone ….to delve into her dark places’, and it seems she took little pleasure in it either. I’m with her there. I need some fun, some lightness, a gentle escape. Is any in the offing?