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desperanceWhy yes, I did just rearrange the furniture to give Barry better sunshine. What's your point?
Maybe it's the clocks going forward, maybe it was stepping out of the hotel yesterday into a loveliness of warmth, but some switch seems to have been triggered in my head, such that I now think this is spring, tho' it's not noticeably different in kind or degree from three days ago when I was muttering to myself about the infinite dreary awfulness of winter.
Why yes, I do live in northern California. What's your point? Winter is a state of mind.
Anyway: boys are basking, turtles are on the move. I was hot beneath the duvet. And couldn't toss it off, on account of Mac pinning it firmly between his body and my own. We'd been away for days; of course the boys felt an obligation to keep a firm eye on us all night. Barry annexed Karen's pillow, Mac just nestled into me.
Today we resume half-forgotten practices, in hopes of wonted skill. I have neither cooked nor written anything for days; who knows? But the yogi are coming tonight, and much depends on dinner*. I have no notion; something may occur. In the meantime, I am taking the LHP and this scribbled-on manuscript to the Palace Cafe, where I will stare at the one and twitch my fingers over the other and somewhere in between them, words will be forming like stars in the galactic dust. Yes. That's how it happens, you know. I have no agency.
*I have at least two books with this title. The quotation is, of course, Byronic; we need not discuss his own particular/peculiar dietary habits, which included a dislike of being seen to eat or seeing other people. Especially, apparently, women: “A woman should never be seen eating or drinking, unless it be lobster salad and Champagne, the only true feminine & becoming viands.”
There's a diet to be doomed to. Sorry, ladies...
Maybe it's the clocks going forward, maybe it was stepping out of the hotel yesterday into a loveliness of warmth, but some switch seems to have been triggered in my head, such that I now think this is spring, tho' it's not noticeably different in kind or degree from three days ago when I was muttering to myself about the infinite dreary awfulness of winter.
Why yes, I do live in northern California. What's your point? Winter is a state of mind.
Anyway: boys are basking, turtles are on the move. I was hot beneath the duvet. And couldn't toss it off, on account of Mac pinning it firmly between his body and my own. We'd been away for days; of course the boys felt an obligation to keep a firm eye on us all night. Barry annexed Karen's pillow, Mac just nestled into me.
Today we resume half-forgotten practices, in hopes of wonted skill. I have neither cooked nor written anything for days; who knows? But the yogi are coming tonight, and much depends on dinner*. I have no notion; something may occur. In the meantime, I am taking the LHP and this scribbled-on manuscript to the Palace Cafe, where I will stare at the one and twitch my fingers over the other and somewhere in between them, words will be forming like stars in the galactic dust. Yes. That's how it happens, you know. I have no agency.
*I have at least two books with this title. The quotation is, of course, Byronic; we need not discuss his own particular/peculiar dietary habits, which included a dislike of being seen to eat or seeing other people. Especially, apparently, women: “A woman should never be seen eating or drinking, unless it be lobster salad and Champagne, the only true feminine & becoming viands.”
There's a diet to be doomed to. Sorry, ladies...