lulu finds a headless critter. and something else in the strip of woods by the tracks, unidentified. a dog will always find things we never would. when she becomes absorbed i become alert, even in my reverie. i know it's something, gross or good.
it seems weird to be reading about emily dickinson's life. it seems strange there is still news coming out of her life.what would emily think of lulu. would she take to her? i can see lulu climbing up emily's long dress. she might be charmed. it would be so cool to see lulu and emily play.
life is strange. a secret story takes a long time to tell. i like recluses, it's fascinating what they communicate.
i keep going to walk the pointers wednesday when i'm not supposed to. my brain forgets, but knows something is amiss. 
it's not strange to be reading about emily dickinson's life as a young girl. she was born to write, and stay at home. i wonder what she would have done today. there are still people like that who stay at home and write, but what if the writing is lost. i'm glad she wrote by hand and tied everything neatly in bundles and placed in her drawer for us. she thought of us. that's a beautiful thing, she stayed home and wrote, for herself, to stay sane, and for us. what would she think of us now? she thought of us then, same as now, her thought still reaching us.