I am in between books, quite unexpectedly. I bought 3 magazines to keep me company while dining on sushi alone before the AWC meeting the other night, which was not at all lonely, but perfectly relaxing and nice, and there was another one waiting when I came home, and I finished my last book last night, and now I'm debating what to read next. Shall I re-read a beloved friend or attempt to find a new one? Aaaah, the book-lover's favorite dilemma!
Last year, I walked just about every day for 3 or 4 months. I had plans to do it again this year, starting in March when the weather was beginning to lighten up a bit, but I busted up my foot in February and ended up shelving my plans for the duration. Whilst (whilst! hahahaha wee! Look what you did!) I was walking last year, I had the most wonderful natural smörgåsbord of sights around me: the burgeoning Spring, the airy outdoors, the riot of colors and flora and fauna that easily infected this journal with flighty and flowing bits of prose extolling the wonderful world around me. This is something that I turned out to be better at than I expected when I started. This year, sidelined as I was, most of my amateur-annie-dillard observations were necessarily snapped in short and staccato bursts during my commute and other drivetimes. At first I thought that was fine, because after all I had managed to document the changing of the seasons pretty well for most of one year already and how much tralala and flower-farting can you people endure? But I must admit I miss it. It was grounding somehow.
Things I Did Today Involving My Hands:
- Chased the stupid ducks and geese from the farm behind us off our deck, out of our yard and across the ditch. Stupid fowl. Keep your nasty birdflu to yourselves.
- Soothing and petting the fevered brow of my daughter who was home sick
- Typing. Lots of it. A wealth of words. An excess of emails. A veritable plethora of verbosity!
A Piscine Pondering: Betta, which is the extremely original name with which we baptized our Siamese Fighting Fish (aka betta splendens, in case you're wondering what the hell I'm going on about), is like a cat. He's like a very predatory tiger in our tank. He's lithe and sinuous and aloof. He chases and eats the little fish occasionally, much as if they were finned birds or mice. He pretends he doesn't come when called, but if I bend down and put my face near the glass, he invariably moseys over and preens in front of me, waving his flowing red-blue-purple tail about, just like a cat. If he were a cat, he'd be weaving it between my legs, wondering loudly where the treats were. The rest of the fish have little or no personality, possessing a sort of collective skitterish-scatterbrained-gluttonous character. Considering how big their brains are (so! very! tiny!), this is no surprise, but I have to make the best of the pets I'm allowed, right?
Hep to the Hap, to the Hip Hop Hap-py Birthday Wishes to pastaqueen!