I am become aged. The years stretch behind me, a tapestry laid o’er the landscape, dancing bright colors and dark. The broken outline of an amazing picture is forming in my mind, the whole of which is not yet woven, and even the partial design is obscured by the ripples and folds of the cloth.
Nice, though. I mean, good material and all that. I don’t know that I’d want to do the house up in it, if you follow me, but it’s jolly nice for all of that. I’d like 80 or 100 more bolts of the stuff, just to start. Probably make a nice window treatment, or slip-cover the couch.
Yesterday I found a thank you note from the son on my writing table, thanking me for, basically, being me, in detail. When my sinuses unclogged we went to town and did things that Needed Doing. When we came home, there was an energetic birthday hello from the daughter that made me feel all warm-tingly and smiley. Wife & son then did the Needful Things around the house, and Bridgette firmly instructed me to take a warming beverage, my One True Pen, and sit my ass down and write — because I’m such an ass when I don’t, and it’s my birthday and all so they don’t want to have to listen to me whine.
After, I created most of a door for the greenhouse, and that was nice, too. There was a Birthday Guiness with dinner, and all is well with the world. As a bonus, the answering machine recorded for all time my mother’s voice singing Happy Birthday, an artifact that I may hold close to me as a momento, or may use as blackmail against future need. Hard to say.
All in all, a very pleasant birthday, given that it landed in the middle of a weekend filled with Things That Need Doing. I’m nearly as lucky as it’s possible for me to be.
Last night I dreamt that Charles Fort was writing of a singular rain of adult novelty items, most buffed to an acrylic gleam, some with tiny dings and imperfections, and of the reactions of the townsfolk who endured this odd weather. Strange dream.
Crossposted from Epinepherine & Sophistry