Sunday, January 20, 2013


This one will be a little bit better. Whatever the illness is, it comes with a nightly splitting headache. I think I get some points for perserving with a post under that condition. But between that and J finally getting home exhausted and wired, it wasn't easy to think or write. I had to resort to visualization to get rid of the pain and fall asleep. Alleve and some sleeping meds ensured that I'd actually conk out.

Was at UNICEF the other week. Here's the UN.
So, I was up at 8:00 and got out of bed, notwithstanding the lure of more cuddling head purring from Cooder. I knew the kitchen had not been cleaned up last night, nor the dishwasher emptied and I know that M appreciates a clean kitchen. I am listening to Michael Chabon's latest, Telegraph Avenue, read by Clark Peters (The Wire, Treme), which I am not as crazy about as that linked review is. But I love Peters' voice and it is interesting to analyze what I do and don't like about Chabon's writing.

Sidebar:  Chabon overwrites and is too wordy. And this from someone who loves Proust. But there is much more depth in Proust's long sentences and detailed descriptions. That said, Chabon certainly  has a terrific ability to nail a great phrase and if I remember any, I will post some here.

So, the house is still asleep. And I am about to attempt to get back to some of the tasks left hanging when I retreated to as much sleep as possible. I need to roast a turkey breast today as well as finish my prep work with Iris and spend some quality time with Apple working on my poor laptop.

The sky is blue and only patchy snow remains on the ground. I had the family room door open for a half hour or so to let in some fresh air. My mom tells me we are looking at a fierce cold snap in the next few days, so I should get out while the getting is good. When it gets to 9 degrees, I doubt that I will want to venture out at all.

Visited with the ever-entertaining Cosmo also.

P.S. I drank coffee for the first time in days and am consequently severely wired. I was going to wash my sheets, but would you interrupt this?

Or, for that matter, this? Notice gigantic difference in sleeping styles. 

Here's another of the poems I posted.

A life should leave
deep tracks:
ruts where she
went out and back
to get the mail
or move the hose
around the yard;
where she used to
stand before the sink,
a worn-out place
beneath her hand
the china knobs
rubbed down to
white pastilles;
the switch she
used to feel for
in the dark
almost erased.
Her things should
keep her marks.
The passage
of a life should show;
it should abrade.
And when life stops,
a certain space —
should be left scarred
by the grand and
damaging parade.
Things shouldn’t
be so hard.
—  Kay Ryan, from The Niagara River, Grove/Atlantic, 2005

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