That time, early in the morning, when you wander, still warm in your covers, between waking and sleeping, between dreams and what the day will demand.

I spent too much time there this morning, trying to recreate and understand scenes that had made so much sense in my not-quite-conscious moments earlier. The reality of certain knowledge dissolved like vanilla extract dropped off the teaspoon into custard, or like warm water at one end of the bath tub.

I was studying playwriting, but not going to class. I was called back for a part, but didn't return for the next stage of auditions. The teacher had a political consulting business. Her husband ran a dry cleaners next door. I talked about pregnancy and how having children was the heavy, most important thing. She was a big woman, heavy — pregnant?

Surely, I thought, there is a clue here for me about me. But I could not grasp it. Head in the pillow, I worked my way through to Tuesday and what happens on Tuesday. Things more truthful floated by, but they would not stay.

It took me a long time to get dressed. One thing I put on didn't go with another, and I ended up in the wrong tee-shirt,  wearing big clunky earrings all day. Heavy again.

I started a new book for Holy Week with my coffee. But it's Tuesday already and it's the same book I started last year and like last year, I won't get through it.

The vague, creeping edge of gray-green anxiety crept through me, like tasting something that's a bit off.  I did not shake it all day long. Not when wandering off to look at yarn and sweater patterns on the internet. Not while wandering the back aisles at Target looking at lampshades. Came home with Easter candy instead, then jammed it into a bag and tucked it out of sight on the dining room buffet. I googled "Easter brunch menus" and my browser slows to a stop as I click through photos of 53 eggs-for-Easter recipes.

And now I'm drifting off to sleep again, still not sure I am who I am and that whoever I am has a clue.