Porter to drinkable ale. Just keep reading.
If I were full of vim this Friday p.m., I'd post photos and text depicting the salmon beheading.
I lack it. The vigor, I mean. But at least that gives you all something happy to anticipate.
Mornings, Elspeth awakens greeting the day with song--and at a good volume. Today the song was about a backpack factory (yesterday it was about a rubber band factory, which I hope is a happier place than the former). Maybe she's been learning about factory labor at school; maybe her teacher has been telling all the first-graders riveting tales about Foxconn. In any case, she seems to have grasped a dystopian industrialist vision:
"I have a backpack factory. There's no smoking and no weapons allowed!" [she sings sweetly as she climbs down from her bunk-bed:] "If you shoot someone you have to say you're sorry, but it won't matter! And you'll have to kill yourself!"
I didn't even know Elspeth knew about self-harm. And here the backpack factory workers are so miserable with their dead-end, absurdest jobs that they end things in this sad way.
I just glanced over this entry. It's so dark; all my apologies. On Friday, to boot! We'll call the first half a chewy porter; here comes the ale that goes down easy:
I actually had a lovely Friday, despite a rather disappointing bento box experience--Martin and I planned further the novel we are about to write, starting Monday, and I drank local hard cider tonight with my Heather and Luke as the kids watched the gorgeous Kiki's Delivery Service. I received three beautiful little carved birds with wire feet in the mail that I'd ordered to give to someone else for Christmas, and then, mysteriously, soon after I unpacked them from their box, Martin found himself giving them TO ME. Many happy returns TO ME. And merry Christmas TO ME. There's a smart but perpetually glum cardinal who is forever being snubbed by two song birds who seem to be sharing a juicy secret. But I gave the cardinal a perfectly smooth rock that looks like an egg so I hope that cheers the glum fellow.
And, to cap off a good day, Luke arrived tonight with a bag full of fresh-cut flowers--shaggy orange dahlias the size of tea cakes, delphiniums bluer than the Indian Ocean, creamy yellow roses. . .what a embarrassment of riches.
So happy weekend, everyone. May your sleep be sweet and long, may your children and pets be understanding, and may your happy hours be full of fizzy laughter with good people.
Happy belated birthday, Uncle in North Carolina. May the queen treat you well and bestow many kisses upon your brow.
And Happy Birthday, dear friend John, rooster brother and hugger extraordinaire. We miss you, good friend.
I lack it. The vigor, I mean. But at least that gives you all something happy to anticipate.
Mornings, Elspeth awakens greeting the day with song--and at a good volume. Today the song was about a backpack factory (yesterday it was about a rubber band factory, which I hope is a happier place than the former). Maybe she's been learning about factory labor at school; maybe her teacher has been telling all the first-graders riveting tales about Foxconn. In any case, she seems to have grasped a dystopian industrialist vision:
"I have a backpack factory. There's no smoking and no weapons allowed!" [she sings sweetly as she climbs down from her bunk-bed:] "If you shoot someone you have to say you're sorry, but it won't matter! And you'll have to kill yourself!"
I didn't even know Elspeth knew about self-harm. And here the backpack factory workers are so miserable with their dead-end, absurdest jobs that they end things in this sad way.
I just glanced over this entry. It's so dark; all my apologies. On Friday, to boot! We'll call the first half a chewy porter; here comes the ale that goes down easy:
I actually had a lovely Friday, despite a rather disappointing bento box experience--Martin and I planned further the novel we are about to write, starting Monday, and I drank local hard cider tonight with my Heather and Luke as the kids watched the gorgeous Kiki's Delivery Service. I received three beautiful little carved birds with wire feet in the mail that I'd ordered to give to someone else for Christmas, and then, mysteriously, soon after I unpacked them from their box, Martin found himself giving them TO ME. Many happy returns TO ME. And merry Christmas TO ME. There's a smart but perpetually glum cardinal who is forever being snubbed by two song birds who seem to be sharing a juicy secret. But I gave the cardinal a perfectly smooth rock that looks like an egg so I hope that cheers the glum fellow.
And, to cap off a good day, Luke arrived tonight with a bag full of fresh-cut flowers--shaggy orange dahlias the size of tea cakes, delphiniums bluer than the Indian Ocean, creamy yellow roses. . .what a embarrassment of riches.
So happy weekend, everyone. May your sleep be sweet and long, may your children and pets be understanding, and may your happy hours be full of fizzy laughter with good people.
Happy belated birthday, Uncle in North Carolina. May the queen treat you well and bestow many kisses upon your brow.
And Happy Birthday, dear friend John, rooster brother and hugger extraordinaire. We miss you, good friend.
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