Saturday, February 22, 2003

Who Knows

Bundled into my quilt, on the couch, almost eleven at night, two candles lit on my table, my slightly-wet hair in a chignon on the very top of my head, from my bath earlier. This night was not meant to have me leave the house, and I remember my dream from this morning: I spent hours walking around a complicated buffet, piling my plate high, and was just going outside to join my friends and eat it, when I woke up. No wonderful salads for me, or whatever else it was I salivated over while perfecting the pile of food. I forgot about it until I was receiving all the different bits of my future evening as phone calls, saying they couldn't make it, and then as me missing the bus, and then coming home to phone the pub and have them page for Sarah (to say what--I'd be late? I wouldn't be able to come at all?) and her not being there. So. I did the only sensible thing. I listened to what circumstances said, and I had tea and cake with Laurie and the kids (whose evening, incidentally, also didn't quite get pulled off) and then took a long hot steamy bath. And then I put on an Ani DiFranco tape and read Sex and the City, by Candace Bushnell (who else?) until the tape ran out (it was the Dilate album) when I promptly put on another (Revelling/Reckoning this time). Tomorrow I have an intimate appointment with an esthetician (and her wax pot) and then of course the customary treat of a Moguls hot chocolate (because they put chocolate whip cream on top) and then who knows. The world, maybe, or maybe just more reading. Well, I wanted it, didn't I, I took out all sorts of interesting books and things from the library (to name a few: On Equilibrium by John Ralston Saul; Waltzing The Cat by Pam Houston; Yoga: Mastering the Basics by who knows; and the MacLean's Guide to Universities for 2002/3) and also had numerous newspapers lined up with feature articles that looked interesting (and even one newspaper I bought, sharp intake of breath here). And now I've done more reading in the past 24 hours (kids books at the library yesterday may or may not count, depending on who's drawing up the entrance rules) than in the past week, and it's quite lovely. I like especially how each new writer's voice and style plays itself out in my own head and how much bulk information is being trucked into my brains. What of it will I retain?

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