Well, in a bit of a jam. Kevin and I were supposed to be having lunch, I thought, with somebody, but I've managed to misplace all the lady's contact info. I don't think we set a time, and I don't have her address, or even her last name. I'm not even sure which of you (William?) put me in touch with her to begin with. Hopefully she's just forgotten about us (I thought she was going to write or call back), and isn't hovering over a lunch table filled with food, wondering where we are...
4:40. Well, never did find the lunch lady. Hope I didn't mess up badly on that one -- miss an e-mail or somesuch. Can't do much about it now...hopefully she'll get in touch.
Did a lot of reading this weekend. On Saturday Kev and I spend most of the day downtown at the Barnes & Noble. Hung out in the cafe reading Pratchett's _Jingo_, laughed out loud a couple of time, as usual with Pratchett, went to a bagel place and had a totally yummy bagel sandwich, the highlight of which was the sundried tomato paste (I am becoming a sundried-tomato junkie), came back to the B & N and read Bujold's latest, _Komarr_, which I loved (Kevin came to ask me if I was almost ready to go about five pages from the end of the book and I'm afraid I snarled at him...he quickly backed away), bought a copy of Connie Willis's _Bellwether_ (which I read Sunday, a delightful romp), partly out of guilt for having used their store to read two hardcovers (though I also pledged to buy them in paperback...though I suppose not necessarily at that store), then went to the Fred Myers and helped K get bowls and extra sheets and cushions for the futon and a mop and a broom and just stuff and finally went home and collapsed. Sunday read the book mentioned above, some more of a book borrowed from him, _Sex on the Brain_, which I may discuss later, started Faulkner's _Absalom, Absalom!_, and wrote most of a new story, which I finished today and will send out to the readers list as soon as I can. If I claim it isn't autobiograpical, will you believe me?
Don't even ask about the tech problems in the tech writing. *Or* why U Chicago refuses to send out my mail. Sigh. And I've lost Kevin, which means I can't figure out how to open Netscape on this Sun... Enough complaining. Write a poem instead.
When I first stepped into this house
after an absence of many years,
I felt strange. It was a little hard
to breathe; my throat and chest were tight,
and my head throbbed. I soon diagnosed
claustrophobia -- the walls seemed closer
than I remembered, the ceiling lower.
The house was unlikely to have shrunk.
It had been some time, after all, and I
had grown. I squeezed my way through
doors, peered into dusty rooms, where
long-neglected toys lay scattered. I hadn't
put them away carefully when I left, but you
hadn't moved them. I was touched. Still,
the house was, clearly, too small. I was sorry,
but I couldn't stay. I took one last look
around, up and down, through the once-beloved
paths...and then turned to the door,
twisted the knob. Only, I had made a mistake --
opened the back door, rather than the front.
Tell me; did you plant this garden, this wild,
riotous maze, while I was gone, without a single mention?
Or did I just miss it the first time through?
Would it be okay, if I stayed a while?