Friday, July 02, 2004
RAINY DAY
Everything was wet and green and thundery and rainy today. Like monsoon season. I had it in my head that perhaps today might be a good day to snag a friend and go commune with the paddlefish and other equally commune-worthy types of aquatic fauna at the Gavins Point Dam Aquarium, but it didn't really seem like a rainy day type of adventure. In my fantasy version of the day, it would have been sunny and very, very windy . . . and it would have been necessary to launch a marvelous and whimsical kite . . . a kite, say, in the shape of a gigantic jellyfish. It just so happens that I have just such a kite.
It was rainy, though, so I stayed home and worked.
Which didn't make it a bad day, just a different sort of day. All day the rain dripped, or splattered, or poured while I tap-tap-tapped away on the laptop . . . the laptop sounds almost like on-and-off spurts of raindrops in counterpoint to the actual rain outside . . . and the cats snoozed in the chair, forming a yin yang symbol by mid-afternoon. Massive excitement ensued later on in the afternoon with the arrival of a Priority Mail box (nobody really understands me the way eBay does), the sovereignty of which underwent several coups and had to be scrupulously defended, not unlike the phenomenon of the warm laundry basket. (It occurs to me that I've already posted several Cats in Laundry Basket pictures in the past, and was besotted enough with my cats that it never crossed my mind that I was simultaneously posting pictures of my underwear on the internet, which just isn't very, well . . . dignified, is it? So please look at the cats and ignore the underwear. And perhaps it's best that this not be mentioned to my Japanese Mother, either, who, to quote Holden Caulfield, would have about "two hemorrhages apiece.")
I've been re-reading Sylvia Brownrigg's Pages for You. I'm very taken with the crisp and compelling pacing of the one-page chapters . . . a page a day, written for the beloved. The prologue opens:
"What would happen if I wrote some pages for you? Each day a page, to show you that I am finding a story, the story of how we might have been together, once. Of how we could be."
Good stuff.
Everything was wet and green and thundery and rainy today. Like monsoon season. I had it in my head that perhaps today might be a good day to snag a friend and go commune with the paddlefish and other equally commune-worthy types of aquatic fauna at the Gavins Point Dam Aquarium, but it didn't really seem like a rainy day type of adventure. In my fantasy version of the day, it would have been sunny and very, very windy . . . and it would have been necessary to launch a marvelous and whimsical kite . . . a kite, say, in the shape of a gigantic jellyfish. It just so happens that I have just such a kite.
It was rainy, though, so I stayed home and worked.
Which didn't make it a bad day, just a different sort of day. All day the rain dripped, or splattered, or poured while I tap-tap-tapped away on the laptop . . . the laptop sounds almost like on-and-off spurts of raindrops in counterpoint to the actual rain outside . . . and the cats snoozed in the chair, forming a yin yang symbol by mid-afternoon. Massive excitement ensued later on in the afternoon with the arrival of a Priority Mail box (nobody really understands me the way eBay does), the sovereignty of which underwent several coups and had to be scrupulously defended, not unlike the phenomenon of the warm laundry basket. (It occurs to me that I've already posted several Cats in Laundry Basket pictures in the past, and was besotted enough with my cats that it never crossed my mind that I was simultaneously posting pictures of my underwear on the internet, which just isn't very, well . . . dignified, is it? So please look at the cats and ignore the underwear. And perhaps it's best that this not be mentioned to my Japanese Mother, either, who, to quote Holden Caulfield, would have about "two hemorrhages apiece.")
I've been re-reading Sylvia Brownrigg's Pages for You. I'm very taken with the crisp and compelling pacing of the one-page chapters . . . a page a day, written for the beloved. The prologue opens:
"What would happen if I wrote some pages for you? Each day a page, to show you that I am finding a story, the story of how we might have been together, once. Of how we could be."
Good stuff.
Posted by Artichoke Heart | 10:47 PM |
