I wake from a sleep of nightmares to find my room full of the smell of England. The rain will keep me from riding the horses this morning.

Yesterday, even a man who claims to be educated about art demonstrated that he did not understand what I meant when I called myself a printmaker. He brought me an old reproduction of a painting and wanted me to tell him it was hand-pulled - one of a kind. I find it hard to talk to these people, and feel oddly guilty when I have to say, "This is not a fine art print."

Then they say, "What's a fine art print."

Ha. Maybe someday I'll find an easy way to answer that question.

It's possible Old Main is haunted.

I have a greater capacity to get creeped out, downstairs in that building than anywhere else. Earlier today, I thought, "Great, Sunday, no one will be around. I can get a lot of work done." But then I found the back hallway unlocked when I arrived and remembered the homeless person I'd found between the stairwells the last time I was there late, and alone. Of course, the offices and entryways are usually open, but that hallway being unlocked means anyone could have gotten anywhere in the Art Museum (except 2D and 3D). Knowing that is probably what got me jumping at shadows.

Most of the time I spent locked in 2D, secure in the knowledge that the only key that can open that door was in there with me. But then I had to take the reframed canvases upstairs, and someone called the elevator between the moment I unloaded the first two and the last one. (Let me note again, this was 8:00 on a Sunday nite. No one should have been in that building). Someone called the elevator but it did not move again, and as soon as I called it back, the doors opened to reveal it was without passenger. I retrieved my last canvas and someone called it again. I stood and listened this time, but again, it did not go to another floor after the one it was called to. Then I had to call it back to lock it. Again, it was empty. After that, the elevator did not leave again. But I did. I hauled the last three canvases up the back stairs and took off.

The sunburn fades off my thighs while the sky bleeds red. I have poured a day into nothing and my reward is this sick feeling and strange images behind my eyes. I find myself irritable with people who are on the other end of a phone line. I want no more of it.

This morning I watched flecks of brown hair break into short pieces and fall through the sunlight while ladybug larvae crawled on my hands. This morning he kissed me twice and said good-bye. I now have one week during which my life will return to what it was before him - except, I suppose, I now possess the capacity to realize he's missing from my days.

I realize no one can go full speed ahead all the time, but I feel sick with the waste of this day. Tomorrow will be different.