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spatch and I have been presented by my parents with an electric kettle, which should stop me needing to run the microwave like breathing. The kettle that lives on our stove had exceeded the capabilities of white vinegar and was starting to resemble a petrifying well. I was fourteen when I became intolerant to caffeine and can remember the experience of coffee and tea before they began to taste like danger signals; I never got into drinking coffee and don't miss it except in the form of ice cream, but I actually liked tea, or at least I acquired an emotional attachment from being taught to drink it by my mother and grandmother. These days it's a lot of nice cups of boiling hot water.
No one is picking the apples that edge the yard across from my parents' house. The air smells like ground-fall every time I get out of the car. I have absolutely no idea what kind they are except late-ripening, smallish and wine-red, a slight grape-bloom on their skins; not all of them are bird-eaten and their branches reach across the fence. At the point where apples are otherwise ending up in the street, I feel they should be fair game for passers-by.
This afternoon's haul from the Malden Public Library was mostly out-of-print mysteries for my mother, but I got Rumer Godden's A Fugue in Time (1945) and The Greengage Summer (1958) because I have never read them and Faulkner's Intruder in the Dust (1948) because the film amazed me. It cannot be true that the only poems I have memorized without having learned them as songs are Yeats' "The Second Coming" (1919) and Housman's "The Oracles" (1922), but those were the two that came up while driving. I assume a consequence of the degree to which it remains astonishingly exhausting to be alive.
I do like the notion of using clams to seed eelgrass.
spatch and I have been presented by my parents with an electric kettle, which should stop me needing to run the microwave like breathing. The kettle that lives on our stove had exceeded the capabilities of white vinegar and was starting to resemble a petrifying well. I was fourteen when I became intolerant to caffeine and can remember the experience of coffee and tea before they began to taste like danger signals; I never got into drinking coffee and don't miss it except in the form of ice cream, but I actually liked tea, or at least I acquired an emotional attachment from being taught to drink it by my mother and grandmother. These days it's a lot of nice cups of boiling hot water.No one is picking the apples that edge the yard across from my parents' house. The air smells like ground-fall every time I get out of the car. I have absolutely no idea what kind they are except late-ripening, smallish and wine-red, a slight grape-bloom on their skins; not all of them are bird-eaten and their branches reach across the fence. At the point where apples are otherwise ending up in the street, I feel they should be fair game for passers-by.
This afternoon's haul from the Malden Public Library was mostly out-of-print mysteries for my mother, but I got Rumer Godden's A Fugue in Time (1945) and The Greengage Summer (1958) because I have never read them and Faulkner's Intruder in the Dust (1948) because the film amazed me. It cannot be true that the only poems I have memorized without having learned them as songs are Yeats' "The Second Coming" (1919) and Housman's "The Oracles" (1922), but those were the two that came up while driving. I assume a consequence of the degree to which it remains astonishingly exhausting to be alive.
I do like the notion of using clams to seed eelgrass.
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Happy Saturday! Here’s what we’re reading right now:
