In which I continue to flout the laws of effective blogging
It's been a whole week since my last entry. I feel such a failure. I should be blogging every day, or two or three times a day. Give that rat its jellybean.
Oh, there was a point where I seriously thought about making a post, but simply didn't have the time to do so. Even now, I feel that I am taking time away from something important that I am avoiding, but I wanted to capture this moment of simultaneous contentment and restlessness.
Contentment: the scent of free-range chicken from a local farmer, cooking slowly with lemon, garlic, and vermouth, is in my nostrils. Around nine--we eat late, partly because I want to watch Bleak House in peace--I will braise radicchio and ricotta to serve with it, as well as a nice inexpensive rose. My white cat perches on the chair behind me, such a baby, despite his ten years. My calico darling sits on the arm of my chair, bewitching me with her adorable soft kittenness. My orange tabby--the Old Woman, the Alpha Female, still beautiful and fearsome--lounges on the back of the sofa, behind my beloved husband. Outside, snow falls. I type all this in a pleasant haze borne of the consumption of two G&Ts.
Restlessness: about ten minutes ago, I crept up behind my handsome brilliant husband and pulled his head back and kissed him passionately on the lips. He is in the midst of preparing tomorrow's lecture for his graduate seminar. He returned my affection with stiff, tolerant lips. "You kiss like a book," I murmured, and though I doubt he caught the reference, the criticism stung somewhat. Oh, my darling, I want to be with you somewhere beyond the reach of students, NSF, DOE, the need for tenure...somewhere where all those things are in suspension, and you and I are all that matter, and I can drown in my desire for you. I want you to devour me. You tell me that all you want, ever, is to be with me, and yet, so many mundane things intrude upon our life together.
Let me describe this man for you: he is tall, gangly, bifocaled, but his piercing blue eyes crinkle kindly behind thick lenses. He smells of Old Spice and clean laundry. His humor is boyish. He is deeply intelligent but unsure of himself. He is a kind and sympathetic master to his apprentices, his graduate students. In 1996, when Carl Sagan succumbed to cancer, he wept. He is kind and loving to small children and animals and has a faithful following among both. He cherishes me like a fragile, treasured heirloom.
Oh, there was a point where I seriously thought about making a post, but simply didn't have the time to do so. Even now, I feel that I am taking time away from something important that I am avoiding, but I wanted to capture this moment of simultaneous contentment and restlessness.
Contentment: the scent of free-range chicken from a local farmer, cooking slowly with lemon, garlic, and vermouth, is in my nostrils. Around nine--we eat late, partly because I want to watch Bleak House in peace--I will braise radicchio and ricotta to serve with it, as well as a nice inexpensive rose. My white cat perches on the chair behind me, such a baby, despite his ten years. My calico darling sits on the arm of my chair, bewitching me with her adorable soft kittenness. My orange tabby--the Old Woman, the Alpha Female, still beautiful and fearsome--lounges on the back of the sofa, behind my beloved husband. Outside, snow falls. I type all this in a pleasant haze borne of the consumption of two G&Ts.
Restlessness: about ten minutes ago, I crept up behind my handsome brilliant husband and pulled his head back and kissed him passionately on the lips. He is in the midst of preparing tomorrow's lecture for his graduate seminar. He returned my affection with stiff, tolerant lips. "You kiss like a book," I murmured, and though I doubt he caught the reference, the criticism stung somewhat. Oh, my darling, I want to be with you somewhere beyond the reach of students, NSF, DOE, the need for tenure...somewhere where all those things are in suspension, and you and I are all that matter, and I can drown in my desire for you. I want you to devour me. You tell me that all you want, ever, is to be with me, and yet, so many mundane things intrude upon our life together.
Let me describe this man for you: he is tall, gangly, bifocaled, but his piercing blue eyes crinkle kindly behind thick lenses. He smells of Old Spice and clean laundry. His humor is boyish. He is deeply intelligent but unsure of himself. He is a kind and sympathetic master to his apprentices, his graduate students. In 1996, when Carl Sagan succumbed to cancer, he wept. He is kind and loving to small children and animals and has a faithful following among both. He cherishes me like a fragile, treasured heirloom.
posted by Staircase Witch | 5:49 PM
1 Comments:
Blogging about why you haven't been blogging tends to rate high on the amateur scale...
I only point out since you seem to be concerned with such trivial details.
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