"i'll stop talking about dissasociation if you don't eat that dirt"

i spent today hungover in the garden with a writer and her baby. she said, four generations of organic gardening, in my family, and her little boy ran around getting dirt under his toenails digging up tiny pieces of earth. she asked me what i was reading and through the haze of last night i told her about distance between readers and characters, and writers and characters, and how no-one really knows what they've created and how frankenstein warns us of tired misogyny but we didn't really listen. she brought me second hand books and the card of a second hand book store. they got back all their cats and now the house is no longer empty and silent at night. owen calls me anna, after anna karenina, and this should offend me, but i love him in all his little literary goodness.