My ass is totally asleep right now. Both cheeks.
I worked like a fiend all day and managed to winnow my in-box down from 208 items to a respectable 37.
Marie has taken to e-mailing me throughout the day, from the collections agency where she works with her mother. She “sounds” just like me – in written and spoken form – which just prompted the evil thought; “That must tick her mom off.”
Calvin’s stuck up in Tuba City tonight – but it should be the last night away for a while. Frankly it boggles my mind that the place even has their own Wikipedia page.
I SHOULD do the following after work: pick up a salad from somewhere, clean the kitchen, fold laundry, feed the cats/dogs/lizards, soak the snake, work out.
I AM doing the following after work: pick up a salad from somewhere, feed the cats/dogs/lizards, soak the snake (she needs it, she’s getting ready to shed), watch seventeen episodes of Supernatural.
The grass in our back yard is thick, green, lush, and currently up to my knees. Neither Calvin or I have had the gumption to get out there and mow it. It amuses me to see Gadget prancing through it, making little deer-like hops to see where he’s going. He hasn’t slowed down, not one little bit, even though he’s still gimpy and still has the occasional seizure.
Gypsy-girl has slowed way, way down over the past month or so – hot weather doesn’t agree with her. She’s was born Christmas of ’97, so she’s pushing twelve, the dear. That’s old for a Beagle. I need to remember to pick up some more supplements for her and Gadget – I don’t know how much they help, but they make me feel like I’m taking care of them.
Calvin and I spent a pleasant hour on the couch last light with the road atlas, still trying to figure out what we’re doing after Cody, WY. Do we do a clockwise loop and hit Arizona/Utah/Wyoming/Colorado/New Mexico/Arizona? Or do we do a counter-clockwise loop and hit Arizona/Utah/Wyoming/Idaho/Nevada/Arizona? Do we go further north from Wyoming, into Montana? We’ve got a whole frickin’ country spread before us, people, and we’re fraught with the anxiety that we MIGHT MISS SOMETHING GOOD.
Calvin and I got glasses. I use mine for computer work; he finds his useful for TV and movie viewing. I may be convinced to take a portrait of us to show you the Dead Sexiness. Perhaps this weekend.
I adore the writing of Mary Stewart. I indulged in two comfort reads (“Thornyhold” and “The Ivy Tree”) over the past week. I own every single one of her books. She paints pictures with her words. Read, if you will, this excerpt from The Gabriel Hounds:
I met him in the sunset called straight.
I had come out of the dark shop doorway into the dazzle of the Damascus sun, my arms full of silks. I didn’t see anything at first, because the sun was right in my eyes and he was in shadow, just where the Straight Street becomes a dim tunnel under its high corrugated iron roof.
The souk was crowded. Someone stopped in front of me to take a photograph. A crowd of youths went by, eyeing me and calling comments in Arabic, punctuated by “Miss” and ” ‘Allo” and “Good-bye.” A small grey donkey pattered past under a load of vegetables three times its own width. A taxi shaved me so near that I took a half step back into the shop doorway and the shopkeeper, at my elbow, put out a protective hand for his rolls of silk. The taxi swerved, horn blaring, past the donkey, parted a tight group of ragged children the way a ship parts water, and aimed without any slackening of speed at the bottleneck where the street narrowed sharply between jutting rows of stalls.
It was then that I saw him. He had been standing, head bent, in front of a jeweler’s stall, turning over some small gilt trinket in his hand. At the blast of the taxi’s horn he glanced up and stepped quickly out of the way. The step took him from black shadow full into the sun’s glare, and, with a queer jerk of the heart, I saw who it was. I had known he was in this part of the world, and I suppose it was no odder to meet him in the middle of Damascus than anywhere else, but I stood there in the sunlight, gazing, I suppose rather blankly, at the averted profile, four years strange to me, yet so immediately familiar, and somehow so inevitably here.
The taxi vanished into the black tunnel of the main souk with a jarring of gears and another yell of its horn. Between us the dirty hot street was empty. One of the rolls of silk slipped from my hands, and I grabbed for it, to catch it in a cascade of crimson just before it reached the filthy ground. The movement and the blinding colour must have caught his attention, for he turned, and our eyes met. I saw them widen, then he dropped the gilt object back on the jeweler’s stall and, ignoring the stream of bad American which the man was shouting after him, crossed the street towards me. The years rolled back more swiftly even than the crimson silk as he said, with exactly the same intonation with which a small boy had daily greeted his even smaller worshipper:
“Oh, hullo! It’s you!”
I don’t know, there’s just something that strikes me as just about perfect, the way she uses language. Do yourself a favor and pick up one of her books – any one at all. They’re all equally excellent.
Okay, so! Long weekend ahead of us with nothing in particular planned. What are you guys doing to occupy the time?