Breakfast

We have a garden now. Tomatoes, pole beans, peppers, parsley, mint, basil, zucchini and yellow squash, sweet corn, okra, and pumpkins are all growing away merrily in our little back yard. I also planted grass in the bare spots under the fir trees. It is coming up now that it rained. We are settling in very nicely. Putting down roots--one could say.

It has been too long since I have written anything. My mind is no longer picking at interesting ideas for "the blog." It's kinda like the opposite of getting netflix. As one becomes accustomed to the service one begins to scour movie review sites and/or just remember films that friends suggest, so one can "flix" 'em.

I have been reading The Travels of Marco Polo by Polo, translated by some 19th century English dude that uses exclamation points in his footnotes.

We still need to find a couch for the living room. We have one (a fold-out) in the basement, and a futon in the mystery room, but no couch in the living room.


If you are in the area or would welcome a road trip come visit for the 4th of July. It looks like we'll have some company already and we could make a rousing time of it.

bloggin'

I started blogging because I lived with bloggers. I think this is unusual, or at least counterintuitive.

I would think that one writes on/at.../in? a blog to communicate with unknown people, or at least people that live far away, who's daily lives are unknown to the blogger.

On second thought, when I began to blog I was probably just imitating the impulse of those around me to create something geographically placeless, invisibly vulnerable...


Now I don't live with any blogging people. I think some of the people I know would like to call it writing..."writing people." But I believe (God, that's a word that lost its meaning to me) that blogging (whether it is journaling or social commentary or whatever) is one more step removed from writing. Speaking removed from language, writing from speaking, printing press from writing, blogging from ...whatever.

I read Dostoevsky's The Idiot the other day.

I slept late today and dreamt a lot this morning. I didn't try to remember any of it. It was all suburban. Banal. Less interesting than the real life that wasn't worth getting out of bed for.

I'm really enjoying my life right now.

Why do I keep thinking about skiing?