1. My desk is dusty, disorganized, and overcrowded with stuff--some of it useful (books and books and books and a sheaf of freshly pointed Dixon-Ticonderoga #2 pencils), some of it silly (dishes of rocks; a cup with Shirley Temple's picture on it). Meanwhile, my kitchen counters are scrubbed and bare.
2. I love playing the violin but hate practicing the violin.
3. And as for Moby-Dick, I admire it but cannot seem to fall into it. I find this disturbing because I love to read as if I'm an uncontrolled practice burn: you know, those fires that the guys set on purpose--say, to get rid of an ugly deserted farmhouse overrun with rats--but that swiftly get out of hand and end up scorching 200 acres of forest? I also have a special predilection for 19th-century novels, so what's the deal here? I have reached chapter 48, but I should be much further along than I am. It pisses me off to be incompetent like this.
4. Last night I had a dream about a friend who this morning sent me an email about his recurring dreams. Curiouser and curiouser.
No comments:
Post a Comment