Apparently, I haven’t had much to say lately. There are dogs to be walked and books to be read and friends to be moved, near and far. After a run of house guests and weekend travel, I have relished our recent weekends at home — even if the last weekend meant relishing by way of contracting this horrible fever virus that is worming its way around town. I was in bed all day on Thursday, fantasizing my death, sending incoherent e-mails to family members, letting Pyrrha lick my limp fingers as she made her rounds around the house. She is a very sweet nursemaid. I was going to say that she had such concern in her eyes while I was laid up in bed, but I think she might always have concern in her eyes, burdened as she is by her myriad fears. My dear troubled dog.
Eden, on the other hand, was quite put out with my laziness. She is merciless toward the weak.
Lately, I have derived pleasure from:
- Post-dinner walks with G. and the girls
- The wildflowers in our front beds (an Easter gift from Mike and Windy)
- The short stories of Paul Bowles and re-reading Pale Fire
- Looking up words I don’t know in Pale Fire, only to discover that Nabokov made them up
- A granite/Corian counter-top cleaner I made myself, thanks to the glories of Pinterest
- New jewelry from Tara Montgomery’s fall line
- Watermelon and peaches
- Going to bed before 10
- Teaching the dogs some (much needed) new behaviors
- The resurrection of family e-mail chains
- Not having any calligraphy jobs on the immediate/urgent docket
- Guion’s new melodies
- July days that top off around 81 degrees