EarBliss, 23oct2021
THE RIVER DOESN’T LIKE STRANGERS, by Chelsea Carmichael.
/23oct2021
A cold rain preceeding the first morning with the under-desk fan heater while young Kirby's acclimation to cone-life continues: freak-outs over lack of peripheral vision diminishing, cone-infused reverse knee-capping of myself not. Morkie far from a calming presence, Jorkie couldn't give less of a shit if she tried. Be The Jorkie.
I feel like I have more to say though it is, at present, inaccessible. Dogchildren sustenance, then back to work; 11 days of cone-life remain.
The next 12 days will be… interesting.
EarBliss, 22oct2021
A LOVE SUPREME: LIVE IN SEATTLE, by John Coltrane.
/22oct2021
Kirby update: he's doing fine after his overnight stay and can come home – and coned – after 11. Must decide on appropriate cone-nickname for him; recycling of "Conehead the Barbarian" feeling most apposite.
That recycling seems to be the limits of my creative mind this morning as the first two chunks of writing were of the "forcing myself to fall asleep" varietal; I remain, however, most grateful that I've reached a moderate level of competence with the most important part of creative work: sitting with something even though it's in full-fledged torture mode, death by a thousand lackings.
The Great Cone-holio? Oh, I do like that one. Back to work.
Watching:
THE INNOCENTS, directed by Jack Clayton from a screen adaptation of Henry James’s “The Turn of the Screw” by William Archibald and Truman Capote. Starring Deborah Kerr, Peter Wyngard, and Michael Redgrave. Released 15 December 1961.
Bags 0-2/8 :: 3854 Pieces
Assembly of our Christmas gift to my grandfather (he likes to display them, I’m only interested in assembly) - that we’re giving to him as soon as I’m done because he’s 95 and, you know, time - has begun.
You have yet again taken my money, Criterion.
/21oct2021
UPDATE: all went well for young Kirby. He’ll spend the night at the vet’s and come home tomorrow.
+++
Returned to the Main FictionThing and the status quo of its rhythmic needs yet to be discovered. Noodled around with pen and paper but nothing stood out for me. Alas.
Thinking: While I recognize patience's role as an essential virtue in this line of toil, I've begun to wonder: do I have more or less patience now than I did ten years ago? Or, rather, has the flavor of patience – to borrow Covid parlance – mutated with the years to another variant of interest/concern? Depends on the day I ask myself.
Kirby has, after becoming enraged at a corner mop bucket, been delivered for his 29-hour adventure to "get his tonsils out," in veterinary euphemism/parlance – or, as The Far Side would say, “going to the vet to get tutored.” The house is quiet. Too quiet.
The day awaits, the only certainity being that mine will probably be better than Kirby’s.