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I'll go be content now
I am sitting here, ostensibly wearing my bathrobe; really it's draped over the chair. I'm listening to Shine On You Crazy Diamond, which to me is relaxing, meditative music - and playing with my hair. I love playing with my hair. No comments from the studio audience, please. Madame S wrote me today about the possible sensual joys of having Medusa hair. She understands.
What did I do today? Well, I worked, a little. Then I came home and drove out to the place I have to go to put gas in my car. Then I drove it to get inspected. The man commented, "You missed red completely," referring to the fact that my inspection sticker was more than a year expired. Then I got the car washed. I felt very dutiful.
I was going to drive it up to Cape Ann to take photos but I went to a movie and dinner with Nonelvis and Marc instead. Movie: The restored print of The Third Man. Have you seen this? You should. They don't make 'em like this anymore.
Tomorrow we'll go take photos. I need a nice long drive with the windows open. Maybe we'll get fried clams.
Bought the Wish You Were Here CD and amazing book for travellers about how to cope with various kinds of toilets and toilet habits you'll encounter all over the world. I finished that in no time. Now I'm writing this and answering email. And playing with my hair.
Marc left me an email about words that don't have rhymes. He had discovered "orange" and "pavement." He asked me if I knew of any others.
I replied:
There are probably a zillion.
"Orange" is always fun. Some people rhyme it with a proper name or other similarly contrived word. This is the best attempt I've seen at it using semi-normal words:
I offered her a juicy orange,
And nuts - she cracked them in the door-hinge.
As for "pavement," upon reading your mail, I was suddenly inspired to compose this bit of doggerel:
While jigging round in misbehavement,
En suite upon the fiftieth floor,
A window gave and threw me o'er,
To plummet out toward early gravement -
But cornice kept me from the pavement,
In wholly unexpected savement.
Harvard Square has one of the best children's book stores known to man. Children's books are dangerous. I'm aboveboard about it - I admit they're for me - but some adults are clearly in denial. "I'm buying them for my niece." Uh-huh. Sure you are, lady. I can see the gleam in your eyes.
We went to the store not to buy a book. Someone had given someone a terry-cloth squeezy octopus bath toy. Orange, with pink spots. Nonelvis wanted to buy one as a future gift for a pregnant friend of ours. Nonelvis ended up buying two - one for her, one for us - and a copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar.
That's all right - I bought There is a Monster at the End of This Book and Centerburg Tales, which I had been looking for used but now own new (I cannot believe Nonelvis has never read the Homer Price stories) ... and Carry On, Mr. Bowditch.
Do you know about this book? It won a Newberry Award, oh, ages ago. I loved it when I was in elementary school, but hadn't read it since then. I read it yesterday, and it was better than I remembered it! There are things in the book which only adults would appreciate, I think - things Jean Lee Latham doesn't spell out in a way the children would understand, but will be abundantly clear to the grown-ups.
Books are good. Life is good. I think I'll go be content now.
© Columbine
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