Oh Gussymay
The snow from two days ago has melted, except for in shaded areas here and there. This morning I decided to check the weather without getting out of bed so I awkwardly reached behind my head and lifted the window a few inches. An arctic blast blew in against my neck and down my collar and along my spine. I quickly shut the window, onto my thumb, and expelled a few select obscenities. It is Easter Sunday and I am still in bed, listening to the Choir of the Abbey of S. Pierre de Solesmes. The music is making me a little sleepy, which reminds me of those youthful days gone by sitting on a wooden pew in a Methodist church in Dallas. But whereas it was considered bad form to nod off in church I cannot see that nodding off in bed should be a problem, except perhaps to a jealous insomniac. The rising sun is on the back of my head now. Now its not. Now it is. Now its not. The wind conspires with clouds. I don't want to fall asleep. I just woke up. I might miss the benediction. Now I am bathed in white light, listening to a chanting choir, in bed, on Easter Sunday.
I am not an expert on the French language but I think the XM radio guy just swallowed and then briefly choked on a French word. Now he is speaking in a non-committal tone about the death of Christ, as if he wants to make it perfectly clear that he is a scholar of music, not religion.
I have an on again off again relationship with neatness. From where I lie I cannot really see the clothes strewn about the floor. Pushing them to the foot of the bed is a technique you can borrow from me, with attribution. The kitchen though, oh gussymay, don't make me get up and go into that kitchen. If I had any art cred the kitchen could be a much discussed piece of work.
The kitchen was already an ill-attended mess two days ago, an hour before it snowed at 10 p.m. when Bernadette emailed and said she was hungry, in NYC. I said I was hungry too. She said I could put anchovies in a pan and melt them. What else? I said, perking up to the possibility of an actual meal existing amidst the sparse stores of my cupboard and fridge. Sauteed garlic and roasted pine nuts and throw in some currants if I want, over pasta. Oh my dear God, I have all those things. And I grated fresh Parmesan or some other fancy cheese-like product over it. It was goodalicious. I didn't clean up afterwards.
Mr. BC emailed me this morning with a link to an article which was to remind me that long term marijuana use does not adversely affect the brain. I don't know why he sent it to me. Its not like I have ever judged him, nor in 42 years have I ever seen him smoke pot or ever been aware of his having smoked pot. But I guess there are things you just can't know, and also, I suppose, he wanted to unburden himself. Hey man, I'm not judging you, you can count on that.
Yesterday I had breakfast at the cafe and overheard a rather learned sounding blowhard Republican tourist go on about how President Bush is right, was right, will always be right. I went back for dinner and had the crabcake and grilled shrimp platter while listening to stories from a table full of visiting jazz musicians. They were behind me and I did not know who or what they were until one of them made some obviously first hand experienced commentary about Lionel Hampton. I then had to turn around a bit to see who I was dining with, and for whatever reason, I began deriving comfort from their presence.
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