It’s raining, it’s dark, I’m a pedestrian, I think I’ll jump in front of Allegra’s car.
I don’t mind pedestrians being suicidal, but puhlease, not during my commute when I’m already running late.
Yesterday Paul and Keith and I went down to Suzanne’s (where stayeth Katie) and had pierogies and chicken for dinner. Suzanne was in fine form and Katie cooked dinner. Then I took Keith back to Geekhaus and we watched the last two eps of season 4 The Wire (oh, Dukie, oh Bodie) and all in all it was a very pleasant evening.
I woke up super early and cooked up some oatmeal. As soon as it clicks over 7 am I’m going to put a roast in the crockpot; Jeff’s been getting stiffed on hot meals and I’m thinking meat and two veg for tonight.
I have started working on another long poem – first in almost ten years – called The Drunkard’s Walk, which is going to be a long meditation about the mystery of human existence as framed by our limited cognition. And alcohol.
Katie is cocooning. More I cannot say on that subject.
I had an hour long conversation with a customer last night. Mostly we stuck to business but at one point he pointed out that he is a Canadian born into an American body, and I owned that in almost 13 years of abusing customers in the service of the alternative energy business I had never heard an American say that. I was so moved I offered him shelter in Vancouver come the revolution. He was grateful, and we returned to business.
I am transcribing dreffle Victorian poetry, and there’s this one poem so vilely racist that the backs of my eyes get scratchy just looking at the damned thing. And in 150 years, if anybody survives, people will be looking at my ravings and know me for a bigoted lunatic. Sigh.
If everyone needs a goal, here’s mine; I’m training hard to be bedridden. Because, you know, getting out of bed sucks so bad.
