Wednesday, June 25, 2008

a full and good life (with plenty of writing)

The evening light is pale yellow again, thin and watery. It filters through open blinds and gauzy white curtains, making fuzzy shadows. I'm sitting crosslegged on the couch in the far corner of the living room, with my glass of ginger ale on the windowsill and my books and notes in a pile beside me. Once again, I am writing a paper.

It probably seems to you, dear reader, that I am always writing a paper.

But that is not all of life. This morning I woke to a 6:44 alarm (I re-set it for 7:11), then ate a poptart and had milky, sweetened spicy chai tea in one of my favorite shaped mugs (low and broad, more like a bowl, worthy of such a strong and lovely brew). Writing followed, and agonizing, and more writing (on the computer, in my notebook, on a small notepad, aloud to Josh's befuddled ears). But a bit after noon I stopped writing! I ate leftovers for lunch and then headed out to spend time with a Baby!

This Baby is around five months old, and he and I are weekly companions now. For an hour or two we hang out while his mom runs some errands or goes for some coffee: we walk around, I sing, we decide on what is Appropriate To Chew and Not Appropriate To Chew (houseplants, however tantalizing, are a Not). We go for walks and get lots of smiles of approval. We bounce.

After Baby Time, I went to the market and palmed peaches (should you buy ones that have split open at the top, by the stem? They were all like that, overblown, somehow), grabbed locally made pita and Wisconsin cheap-brand cheese (still $1.99 for 8 ounces, which is amazing here in the city), yellow squash, bell pepper, leaf lettuce, plums. I froze my fingers (and stretched my muscles) carrying milk home with the rest.

I also cleaned the bathroom (houseguest on the way!), baked chocolate cupcakes (last day of class tomorrow!), wrote scatterbrained emails, tidied my files, browsed blogs with pretty pictures.

And now I really--really--am going to write.

1 comment:

  1. “The evening light is pale …”

    Following your recommendation, I have begun Pale Fire/Vladimir Nabokov/1962. Ex ante, had I not known that Pale Fire is considered a “masterpiece” and your giving the work, a constellation, of five stars, in starting I would be concerned.

    I thought your commentary on the work especially cogent, in which you opine that it is not the finished work that is of special merit, the denouncement, being but an afterbirth or shadow of the higher metaphysical state reached by the scribe in the process of bring forth the work – hence Pale Fire. Kudos…

    I need some definitional guidance and seek your assistance. Written in English, in the United States, by a Russian, is Pale Fire considered American Literature?

    I began my reading of Pale Fire while getting a pedicure at the nail shop near the Publics where I shop. Envision – me with glasses, sartorial, perusing Pale Fire, while a young Vietnamese girl catered to my whim. I opted out on polish, but had I, I might of considered the violet/pink hue that you use when grading papers.