It's Friday. In the kitchen, the girls unload the dishwasher--clanking, singing--outside, Martin covers the woodpiles--the rustling of tarp as he unfurls it over perfectly stacked wood, all snug against the shed. We're just waiting for the cold weather to arrive.
Charley sleeps in his blue bed, tired from his week, which was not particularly busy nor stressful, as far as I can tell. I suppose there was a crowd of people here last night, but he got bacon scraps, so it's been a good week for him all in all.
Two mornings of fog. The short story that I enjoyed so much yesterday is fatally flawed as all creative out-pourings of the soul tend to be, but I am able to salvage a page or two and run in a different direction. I scrapped about 200 pages of work on a book and started over again this morning. I am on page 6.
I am thinking about wine, happy hour, my mother-in-law, the dog hair covering my sweater, soccer games tomorrow, a pumpkin party on Sunday, a half dozen things bobbing around in my Friday-head. Merry is singing a bizarre version of some pop song through clenched teeth--diamonds in the sky, she's spitting out.
Our friend Joe who blew in from Europe and the Caribbean (and worked as a deckhand on a tall ship all across the ocean to South Carolina) is downstairs in our makeshift guest room, interviewing with a captain of a boat. He plans to sail to South America.
Bea is putting away silverware, singing, "Here's my number. So call me maybe."
Where is the comma in that sentence? Call me Maybe, as in this girl's name is Maybe? Or call me, maybe? A lyric that I care for less I have yet to see.
I am tempted to erase this entire entry. It is without narrative arc. It is plotless. It is spineless. What can I say? It is FRIDAY. So call me, Friday.
Just call me. . .Friday.
Charley sleeps in his blue bed, tired from his week, which was not particularly busy nor stressful, as far as I can tell. I suppose there was a crowd of people here last night, but he got bacon scraps, so it's been a good week for him all in all.
Two mornings of fog. The short story that I enjoyed so much yesterday is fatally flawed as all creative out-pourings of the soul tend to be, but I am able to salvage a page or two and run in a different direction. I scrapped about 200 pages of work on a book and started over again this morning. I am on page 6.
I am thinking about wine, happy hour, my mother-in-law, the dog hair covering my sweater, soccer games tomorrow, a pumpkin party on Sunday, a half dozen things bobbing around in my Friday-head. Merry is singing a bizarre version of some pop song through clenched teeth--diamonds in the sky, she's spitting out.
Our friend Joe who blew in from Europe and the Caribbean (and worked as a deckhand on a tall ship all across the ocean to South Carolina) is downstairs in our makeshift guest room, interviewing with a captain of a boat. He plans to sail to South America.
Bea is putting away silverware, singing, "Here's my number. So call me maybe."
Where is the comma in that sentence? Call me Maybe, as in this girl's name is Maybe? Or call me, maybe? A lyric that I care for less I have yet to see.
I am tempted to erase this entire entry. It is without narrative arc. It is plotless. It is spineless. What can I say? It is FRIDAY. So call me, Friday.
Just call me. . .Friday.
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1TBR20_ux_s