Random musings on a writer's life & times, with occasional input from acquaintances
Sunday, January 02, 2005
Here’s 7 for Sunday the 2nd day of the 1st month of ’05.
1) What are you wearing?
Pathetic black t-shirt with a red and white logo on the front memorializing the London Underground (I bought it at the subway stop outside the Tower of London last summer; it was encased in plastic, so I couldn’t feel how flimsy it was, and now -- after four months of wear -- the fabric has 12 visible holes, including a large rip that reveals my belly button and provoked my wife to laugh derisively this morning); blue Levi’s, white Nike sox (I bought some new ones!); sweatboots.
2) What are you reading?
“Bandbox,” a novel by Thomas Mallon about a Jazz Age magazine (think Harold Ross-era New Yorker) and the people who work there, given to me by my sister-in-law Janet for Christmas. Ain’t she sweet? Now I ask you very confidentially, ain’t she . . .
3) What’s for dinner?
I ate the leftover spaghetti for lunch, so I’m not sure.
4) What’s the best thing that happened this week?
Christmas! Does that count? Oh. That was last week. Huh. Well, how about New Year’s? I shared dinner with neighborhood friends and then drank champagne til midnight at my kitchen table with eldest son Joe. (Wife Cookie Jean was in bed by 11. We don’t exactly party hard these days.)
5) What’s bugging you?
I was pontificating about something to Cookie Jean this morning, after she finished laughing at my shirt (or was it my belly button?), when she interrupted to ask: “Why is your eye bleeding?” This sent me scrambling to a bathroom mirror. Sure enough, the former white of my left eye was blood red from the cornea (the brown part) to the outside corner. I thought for sure a stroke was forcing blood from my brain out my eye socket. A computer search of the internet, however, reassured me that such a "subconjunctival hemorrhage" is a fairly common problem, usually harmless and resulting from a physical strain as simple as coughing, sneezing or bending over. What a relief! Still, I look like the villain from one of those Hong Kong chop-socky flicks in which a hero with a name like Hung Far Low tires of my persistent assaults and kills me by gouging out my eyeballs. Or one of them, at least. This I am not happy about. It hurts a little bit, too, despite what those internet quacks said about painlessness.
6) Where in the world is Carmen San Diego?
Kowloon, China. That’s right next to Hong Kong, my atlas says. (Carmen is boycotting the Tower of London, and the souvenir shop at it’s underground stop.)
7) What’s it all about, Dave?
As the calendar flips to a new year, let us consider the words of poet Delmore Schwartz, who penned some decent poems despite a most unfortunate name. He wrote:
"Time is the school in which we learn, time is the fire in which we burn."