Even though made of a patterned silk, I decided that the yellow roof was too plain.
I like it better now.
Finn says hello and it’s raining. No snowing. No raining.
A few short term goals: delete a few thousand photos from my phone; mend a frayed cuff on one of my favorite zip-up sweatshirts; tend to some correspondence; get a decent hair cut (I might go short again).
I dreamt I was on a cooking show. I couldn’t find a spoon or a bowl or eggs and I had to make Yorkshire Pudding. Time kept sliding past. I had nothing to show. I can’t get an F, I thought. I’ll make a sandwich!
One of THoSe dreams.
Maybe the dream was informed by a stretch of intense editing. I deleted two more chapters. I’m back to tracking word count. Recently, sliced out nearly 1,000 words.
Time keeps sliding past.
Some pretty snowflakes are falling right now, but yesterday was rain, rain, rain. There’s been a lot of rain falling this “winter.”
I found out that The Sketchbook Project’s library is closing its doors in Brooklyn. There’s a narrow window in which one could sign in, pay a fee, and request the return of your booklet. I submitted two, years back.
I couldn’t even sign in. Had the right everything. I know it. When I can’t sign in somewhere I usually don’t have that confidence.
I may try again but if I can’t get in, eh. I gave them up once, it shouldn’t be that hard to let the status quo reassert itself.
The things that one grows tired of—O, be sure They are only foolish artificial things! Can a bird ever tire of having wings? And I, so long as life and sense endure, (Or brief be they!) shall nevermore inure My heart to the recurrence of the springs, Of gray dawns, the gracious evenings,
The infinite wheeling stars. A wonder pure Must ever well within me to behold Venus decline; or great Orion, whose belt Is studded with three nails of burning gold, Ascend the winter heaven. Who never felt This wondering joy may yet be good or great: But envy him not: he is not fortunate.
I’ve got a morning to myself after several busy ones. It’s 25 degrees out. I’m typing instead of bundling up, hoping it’ll be a tad warmer when Finn and I head out.
It’s decided! My Christmas Eve menu, that is: lasagne and tangy green salad with something interesting in it — shallots and pumpkin seeds maybe?
It will be just six of us, the boys elsewhere. Our plan is to see them for a few days of skiing at the end of January, which as you may remember is the trip we cancelled last year because the Omicron numbers were going through the roof.
Anyone else reading about Long Covid and sudden unexplained deaths of the young and middle-aged and freaking out?
I keep turning down invitations. Yes, I flew to California and will fly to Colorado next month. Maybe that’s enough risk for the winter?
There was a poetry reading downtown on Sunday. Oh how the refusals tugged at me!
But a friend has launched a publishing company and this was their first reading of their first publication. I had to go. Had to.
A box of masks sat on a stool near the door. Most attendees wore one. A latecomer patted her purse and exclaimed that she’d forgotten hers. I pointed to the box. Again she said she had no mask. Again I nodded toward the box. “Oh, maybe I’ll just be brave!”
I’m still thinking about that.
There’s my paper doohickey from Nancy. It directed me to do five jumping jacks on my walk this morning and maybe I will! Why not? These beautiful African combs were a gift from a friend many years back. I love them but plan to ship the set to New Mexico to thank a new beta reader. A recent application of walnut oil really made them look beautiful.
My querying is on pause while I absorb these new comments.
Next week, the 1/6 Committee will convene for the last time on Monday, probably to vote on criminal referrals. On Wednesday, 12/21, their report will be made public. THAT is where my heart and mind is. Not on Christmas Eve or Christmas. The holiday isn’t there quite. It just isn’t there. Anyone else feeling this way?
A menu is a first step. Getting a tree will help. Always love the smell and the glittery lights.
But gifts? Ugh. You’d never know I’m someone who used to start gathering presents in early September, that I’m someone with a gift cupboard. How much is age? How much is Covid? How much is the boys being so far away?
I ask myself these three questions all the time.
PS The third synchronistic event mentioned a bit ago is to remain private.