All's askew this morning, albeit deliberately. I've been battling something nasty in my wrists for about a year now--first the left, which had me out of typing action for almost a month in the spring, and now the right, after a day of mousing around with my Reading Poetry syllabus--
Hang on. Worth noting that lovely verb: "mousing." The term of art, I gather, for using one of those Microsoft rodents, but doesn't it conjure up images of tiny red-coated hunters galloping across the kitchen floor, horns calling, hounds belling (is that what hounds do?), etc. In any case--
so I've been battling syndromes, Mr. Incredible-style, on and off for about a year now, and have decided to try a few new tactics, including what feels to me like a teetering-tall elevation in my desk chair (look, Mom! Up here!) and passing the mousie to the left-hand side, where I grope for and fumble with it like a teen-ager again.
Quite fun, really. So far. In fact, I keep thinking, however inappropriately, of Marilyn Hacker's little poem "Self": "I did it / differently," and so on. (If you don't know the poem, look it up. "Nerves whose duty is delight." Yum.)
In any case, if anything about the blog feels, ahem, different in the next few days, that's what, and that's why.