Waking up is a time when I have lots of interesting, though not particularly happy, ideas, but I'm never able to organize them into anything coherent, and they quickly fade— much more quickly than the noise of that machinery did. Perhaps they only seem interesting to my sleep-addled brain, and are actually quite dull, so as I slowly reconnect to reality they recede. Maybe when I finally disconnect from reality altogether they will become permanent. I don't think I'm going to like that.
The evening nap was not very surprising, as I've been getting too little sleep most nights lately. Tuesday I woke up with a very dry throat, and it remained sore for several hours. The long nap brought the soreness back, and it still gets a little twinge when I swallow. I tried getting a few things done in the afternoon, but had no luck. I need to call PG&E to let them know I didn't get a bill in February, but their system was overloaded and I never got through. I also need to contact the DMV to find out why I never got the state ID card I renewed online. Although they sent me a notice telling me I could do that, when I visited their web site today I found a page that said you can't renew online if you have a change of address. That's probably it, so I guess I'll have to go over there. Not looking forward to that.
I also still haven't gotten around to letting the insurance company know that I'll be needing more money for rent from the loss-of-use fund. I'm really not even sure how to go about that, since my great-niece who lives in North Carolina actually handled that last time. I'm thinking the disruptions stemming from that fire will be plaguing me for the rest of my life.
After I gave up on the phone tasks I went to the Goodwill store where I had a bit of good luck. I found an omnibus edition of five Edith Wharton Novels, two of which (The Age of Innocence and The house of Mirth) I lost in the fire. The other three are Ethan Frome, Summer and The Custom of the Country. The only other Wharton I lost in the fire was Hudson River Bracketed, one of her later novels from the 1920s. Then I got an omnibus volume of F. Scott Fitzgerald, with his two first novels (This Side of Paradise and The Beautiful and Damned,) plus 19 short stories.
Then there is The West: A Collection from Harper's Magazine, a reproduction of a few dozen articles published in the magazine in the 19th century, complete with original illustrations. The page format is quite a bit smaller than the magazine's was, though, so I might have to put of trying to read any of it until I get one of those magnifier things. The type is awfully small. Finally, I picked up a copy of the collected short stories of Gabriel Garcia Marquez. The only one of his books I had before the fire was One Hundred Years of Solitude, but I had read a couple of his stories in magazines.
I suppose Wednesday I should make another stab at dealing with the PG&E bill and the insurance money (the ID card will have to wait until I can get to the DMV office which, though not very distant is on the far side of the freeway and thus requires going around and under or over and back— the usual mess pedestrians must endure when a city has been disemboweled for the convenience of cars. There is a bus that goes that direction, but timing will be important. The neighborhood the office is in is a trap, and I don't want to get stuck in its unpleasantness for a long time.
Never got around to dinner before the nap, so I should make some ramen I guess. I hope I can get back to sleep before dawn.