An easy dawn, the brightness of the sun muted by clouds too thick to be pretty and too thin to bring rain. I wake happy, feeling the effects of physical labor, even if it is artificial labor, and I like it. Anything that feels like being alive gets my respect.
It was such a beautiful day that I couldn't be responsible and stay inside at my desk. I tried working out on the patio, but my heart wasn't in it. Went to see an old friend, then took my book to Le Madeleine where I thought I could read and have a salad. I've become extremely fond of dark leafy salads with fruit, spinach and strawberries are on the top of my list. When I took my tray outdoors, which was the whole point of paying seven dollars for an undressed salad and Perrier, the wind surprised me. I rarely use salad dressing, so the tender leaves blew off my plate like feathers. It was interesting to me, wondering if the cars out on the street would wonder why leaves of spinach were flying by their windshields… I know it would have made me wonder, had it been my wipers capturing those leaves.
A case of nerves tonight… the kind you will only understand if your child is at bat with bases loaded and two outs, with the team down by two. The pitcher walked him. The next batter hit a grand slam. A good game.
Another parent moment… when you realize that the boy out there who stands a foot taller than the others and runs without seeming to touch the ground, the one the coach puts into pinch run for his own kid, is the same one with a crush on his English teacher, and the same one who reminds you to turn left when you are lost in the time warp of a story in your brain but also happen to be behind the wheel of a car… and is the one who still wants you to kiss him good night. You never get too old for that stuff. You just don't.
In 55 days I will be able to put my manuscript in the drawer with the other ones, and start something new. I finished the story.... Undertow… unabashedly women's fiction, that had been waiting and waiting for its conclusion … for two years… last night, revised it with the help of a writer I don't know, and realized that it is the last of the old ones that I will polish instead of starting fresh. I can't imagine how good it will be to have the yoke of this last novel off my back too. I have been asked to write a horror novel next time. We'll see. Megg doesn't like to write more than three thousand words.
I'm tired of smelling paint, though the associative memory is interesting. With any luck, one more days will complete the job. Most of it has been under spousal duress and not done intelligently, with carefully planned decorator schemes or thought given to the themes of the room or even the furnishings. It is purely the result of builder khaki revolt. That's right, my avant-garde builder didn't paint the house in those time-honored shades of white. This is upscale paint! It is khaki! It is the result of buying a house not yet completed fifteen hundred miles away.
Here are the colors I've had it painted: Interactive Cream, Open Air, Lucky Green, Resolute Blue, Cyclamen, Breaktime, Misty and Bagel. Not to mention the Eggplant that I did myself before I realized just how stupid that was,
Two phrases from conversation: "Non computer mediated"… speaks for itself I think…
and Telematics: like when telephone call centers, for example, are connected to databases, so that when a person calls before you even lift the receiver you have a whole wealth of info about them –
Bet you didn't expect to be quoted, did you? I think Anthony Tedesco would call them money words. Maybe I should send them to him.
I still have hundreds of bits racing through my mind but the night last night only lasted two hours, and I have to be on my game tomorrow.
Ignore the typos, wrong words, extra spaces, etc, etc, etc. I'll fix them after I've slept.
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