Sunday March 4

• Three strange aimlessness of a taking a baby-sick day. You are not at work, in a kind of semi-vacation that is not a vacation, in continuous scared vigilance, even when the baby sleeps. In limbo at you wander home from the doctor, both part of the street and apart.
• The cake in the cafe tastes slightly stale, but don't have the energy to send it back
• The bright red plastic back, echoing the color of the red headscarf, lit by the window.
• The water lilies in the pond by the train tracks are starting to bloom: a bud, by a fully open flower. They are no the same species at Giverny and are confined to a shallow fountain-puddle, but still can't help thinking of Monet

• The deep red of the closed lily bud beneath the water.