I need one of those high-intensity light therapy lamps. No, it's not for my home advanced interrogation techniques kit. I have my kitchen for that. But I feel crazy jet-lagged -- I haven't been on a plane in months -- and I have this urge to roll a stick of butter in sugar and eat it. It's pretty clearly Seasonal Affective Disorder, which I just don't have the time for.
For Halloween this year I'm going to re-read James Merrill's The Book of Ephraim, which is creepy for multiple reasons. No one reads poetry anymore. (Me, La Loca, and Alice Notley, who has a new collection out.) It's by the son of the Merrill who founded Merrill Lynch, talking with spirits through a Ouija board. Not many Pulitzers are won via the planchette. Someday I should read Alison Lurie's Familiar Spirits, her memoir about its composition.
Also I should read Anna Kavan. A recent Doris Lessing retrospective reminded me of that. A friend of mine once told me to read Kavan, years ago, back when the authors we read had symbolic meanings for us. In hindsight, I suppose she would have chosen Ann Quin, had Quin been better known then. Anyway. I feel like I owe it to her, or to me, or maybe to Kavan? I don't know. But someone is owed something, I feel sure.