I'm trying to avoid talking about some bad stuff, so I will just talk about my day. It was sunny -- screamingly so through the window at me when I woke up. I called my sis/bro-in-law in Pennsylvania and asked Richard if he thought it might be a UFO, and should I call NASA. He said, "Yes, of course." They were snowed in -- or actually they leave their car at the bottom of their driveway when the snow's bad, since it's a hill. I worked on Ann's webpages for a while, and read some more in "Fanshen" and "Killing Mister Watson." I went out at -- well, I thought it was 2:30 but my clocks would have to be reset every few days due to power outages so I never quite know the time until I get in my car. It was twenty minutes to 3 -- so I zoomed over to Annie's house to attend Bark's Fifth Avenue's memorial service. I used to dogsit for her, and Billie, whose dog Andy I dogsat for, came, as did the VanJens whose dog Bob was the subject of a small linocut I made before I got all messed up. Andy and Bob are dead. Barks's best friend Chico was there -- on his last legs and with cancers, but he was pretty good. I felt bad because I bumped him on the nose accidentally with my camera, which hurt. He thought I'd done it on purpose when he was just trying to be friendly. I reckon I'm not alone in my feeling of unreality when it comes to dearly loved dead ones. People or dogs. They just seem...out of town. What a bummer. Billie said she wasn't even going to ask me if I still dogsit -- I said, "They have to dogsit for ME now." Billie has a new dog, the JenVans are going to get another dog, Chico has another dog in his family. I had said to Anne that I wondered if we got to see our animals when we die -- that I'd like to see (in my case hundreds of dogs, cats, horses, ponies, goats, chickens, etc.) them, but did they want to see ME? I'll be surprised if we retain any "self" once we die, though. I feel it's like a raindrop falling into the ocean -- an immediate end to separation.