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i quickly found myself driving 45 in a 30 yesterday after leaving the doctor's office where i was tested for mono; perhaps the excess surged in response to the possibility of having a disease founded on lethargy. i'm still waiting to hear the results. since returning from michigan, i have visited my regular doctor twice, the dentist, the allergist, and the travel and immunization clinic. because i'm going to peru, the lady at the travel and immunization clinic prescribed some precautionary pills for malaria: side effects include vivid dreams and/or nightmares.

last night i started reading THE WAVES by virginia woolf. seventy pages into it, i must say that it is one of the most beautiful pieces of prose that i have ever come across. i figure someday i'll read it aloud to a young woman as a means of seduction. maybe i'll even play this song in the background as i whisper,

'all my ships are white,' said rhoda. 'i do not want red petals of hollycocks or geranium. i want white petals that float when i tip the basin up. i have a fleet now swimming from shore to shore. i will drop a twig in as a raft for a floating sailor. i will drop a stone in and see bubbles rise from the depths of the sea. neville has gone and susan has gone; jinny is in the kitchen garden picking currants with louis perhaps. i have a short time alone, while miss hudson spreads our copy-books on the schoolroom table. i have a short space of freedom. i have picked all the fallen petals and made them swim. i have put raindrops in some. i will plant a lighthouse here, a head of sweet alice. and i will now rock the brown basin from side to side so that my ships may ride the waves. some will founder. some will dash themselves up against the cliffs. one sails alone. that is my ship. it sails into icy caverns where the sea-bear barks and stalactites swing green chains. the waves rise; their crests curl; look at the lights on the mastheads. they have scattered, they have foundered, all except my ship which mounts the wave and sweeps the before the gale and reaches the islands where the parrots chatter and the creepers...' (18-19)

two high school girls sunbathe in their backyard next door. i noticed them earlier and told curtis about the scene. he quickly changed outfits and took to the trampoline in our backyard, performing flips and twists, yelling at mom informing her that he can now jump high enough for his head to hit the big tree's bottom branch. "curtis, don't be a voyeur!" i warned him. nonplussed, he responded, "what? don't be a lawyer?"