Very pleasant day here in Lotusland. Woke to a world so covered in dew that it was quite amazing; and a dead rat on the back deck. When the condensation burned off it was a glorious fall day, so glorious that I had to do yard work. I’ve had a pretty slack day. Dishes, laundry, leaf raking (Keith did 2/3rds of it mind you) and it was a couple of hours and many wheelbarrow loads, hanging with Katie and her friend Samantha briefly, making a trip to the bank and Rona and the Twist with Paul. Reading a bit more “Love for Sale” which is virtually impossible to read sequentially. It’s like a, oh, I don’t know, one of those bathroom reader books but, like, a scholarly/literary one? Weird. And I can’t deal with the cover. A naked white woman being tended by a clothed black woman. (Olympia by Manet, which is a really cool painting, but I don’t think belonged on the cover.)
I would like to publicly announce that Erica Williams is a goddess.
2019 says – who is Erica Williams? I have no frickin’ idear
I’m giving a sermon at Beacon December 5. The person who was originally scheduled was unavailable. So I have the opening paragraphs of the sermon, during which I will studiously quote Hewitt, as he is the capo di tutte capi around these parts in terms of being a Unitarian Elder Statesman.
After that I’m stuck, but that might have something to do with having to stop and do three Tarot readings. Two for the girls, one for me. Will I go back to Beacon? King of Cups staring me in the face. Very funny, little cards.
An interesting thing about Rev Hewitt is, of all the human beings I’ve ever been in the same room with, he’s the one with the voice timbre most closely resembling that of Walter Cronkite. I remember being simply mesmerized (when I was a wee tad, obliviously) by anything Cronkite announced or narrated. He narrated a “peep into the future” show called The 21st Century, and I used to love watching that program because there was all this neat tech stuff and this amazing amazing narration. So I sit and listen to a Rev Hewitt sermon and I literally don’t hear a word he says, I’m so enchanted with how he’s saying it.
I light a candle for Yassir Arafat. If Allah indeed is Lord and rules this ball of mud it will go hard for him, I fear.
Paul said we’re going out to dinner (I had not actually been thinking of going out and had started food happening) so off the the four of us and Unca Dave go to The Grand Buffet. Don’t ask about the shrimp, at least while Katie’s in earshot. Everything else was really good except the sushi.
I said to John after we got back, in the course of a conversation, “I’m open to change” and he said “I’m even open to spare change.” So of course I had to run upstairs and write it down. I’m sure it’s been done, but it sure sounded funny at the time.
I found the song I wrote when Carmen killed himself. I remember thinking at the time that it was a really good song, but I’d never record it because it might be interpreted, falsely, to encourage people to kill themselves. And it might be interpreted the wrong way by people who were a lot closer to Carmen than I. The living need to be respected more than the dead.
I hear that Mike is moving closer, first to Coquitlam and then to Burnaby. This means, and you can feel the jelly wobble when I say this, that a hot tub is migrating back into my future. Mind you, hot tubs do not (affect English accent) migrate, per se, but if you have six or eight strapping lads you’ll do well enough. (Okay, back to Anglo Canadian). This hot tub is a place where I have spent many happy hours, frolicking with kids, getting various portions of my anatomy massaged, and drinking beer during a snowfall. A man has levitated back into that hot tub after falling out of it – and he never touched the ground. I remember Stephanie talking about horses, crazy ex husbands and the various practical arts she has mastered over the course of a very willful life; she gave a lot of sound advice, and I prospered when I took most of it. Those days have gone, but access to the hot tub, thankfully, has not.
Stair components cut and primed. Tomorrow insulation and stairs, both. Sounds like a lot of work will be happening here, tra la la I’ll be at work. The railing is off already, so it’s REALLY disorienting going down those stairs now. Somebody wrote a bit about a coffee table – Shelley Newman (I think) and I want to do something about the back stairs. My back stairs are very independent minded. They wish to secede from the back of the house, and they’re talking the nails into coming loose and joining their glorious Confederacy. Not only are they hostile to the house, they are vicious when approached. You do not want to walk on these stairs. They are not flat, and tip forward in fact, to the point where you’re contemplating whether it might be the better part of valour to just sit down. Maybe scooch down the stairs on your butt, so as to not break your skull, or more likely, your wrists. These are the stairs that will get their wish, and they will be like a vile spirit exorcised; the magicians I live with and am related to will make them trouble me no more. In their place, a brilliant shining white stair, so bright that I must needs turn my eyes away from the awful chatoyancy. Yup, that’s what a little carpentry can do for ya. I’m a lucky goil.
