My, this posting slows in the summer. What's been happening: the cilantro bolted, thunderstorms have threatened, sirens have been wailing at two a.m., we have finished yet another season of The West Wing.
Summer school drags itself to a close tonight. I am wearing leggings under a shirtdress. There is a stack of library books to bring to the beach and fill with a little bit of Carolina sand. There is a stack of new-to-me poetry collections to bring as well. The winner of best cover in the stack goes to this little book, which is bright pink and oh-so-subversive.
Also tucked into my beach bag will be one seventy-some-page manuscript, which is not really anything cohesive yet but needs to be pruned and revised and added to and thought about this summer. Hey! Maybe by the time the first book is birthed, it will already have a little brother!
Yes, books of poetry are boys. They just are.
Did I tell you that I am writing an essay about coneys this summer? The research component is awesome.
That's the news from here. I could tell you that I spent two hours pruning and reorganizing my bloated recipe binder, and that I am planning on spending the summer cooking no fewer than fifteen Indian recipes, and that I rearranged my office to better facilitate the sitting on the sofa and reading, but that's just self-indulgent bullshit, eh? Eh.
*
If you do a Google image search for "molasses," Google will recommend a related search for the Stamp Act of 1765. WHICH IS PRETTY AWESOME, once you think about it.
No comments:
Post a Comment