Why does it seem that after this, I will have lived too long?
Dinner outside last night with my mother was pleasant. I cut chicken into strips and seasoned it being especially heavy with the red pepper, then pan fried it in olive oil. I put this over jasmine rice and topped it with Alfredo sauce. Asparagus. Sav blanc. If only I could dial up last night's weather whenever I want.
Maybe I shouldn't have started with vodka after the gym. Then wine. What is left after dinner but. . . .
It was early. I was. . . I can't remember the Yiddish term. . . kerflunked or something like that. Out of sorts. I couldn't think of a thing I wanted to do. I listened to music. I sat at the computer. I looked through images I've taken but never processed. I found some things that were marvelous, things that are not to be shown here. I worked on one. Oh, it was so very, very beautiful and so. . . unmarketable. Who would ever buy it? Where could it ever be hung? No matter how beautiful, people just don't put that sort of thing in their homes. But, too beautiful to leave alone, I emailed it to some friends. They will like it. Best of all, it has a yellow chair against the old red background, a chair I've never shown in pictures before. I may use it again. And I want to print the picture big and bold. I have many like that, private images, "secret" things, as you can imagine. Are you here, Taschen? Are you hearing this?
Afterwards, I went to bed and began reading "The Flamethrowers." It didn't start with a bang, the language somehow too vague, the phrasing too weak. Reviewers must have liked the intricacies of the plot I'm guessing. Soon, I was checking emails (as I was reading on the iPad), and then I turned off the lights and drifted away.
And woke at four. Perhaps the liquor had worn off. I got up, went to the bathroom, drank some water, turned on a light in another room, and put on some music. That usually does it, but not this morning. There was no slipping back to sleep, and so, an hour later, I got up knowing that the day was going to hurt, that I would be tired this evening when a guest is supposed to arrive.
And now in the dark, sunrise still over an hour away, I drink coffee and listen to the Apple Radio station that I began with a song by the Gilbertos, the music soft and easy and so, so sixties (not the sixties you are thinking of, but the other one, the early one that was still the fifties, the Bossa Nova sixties, that "fusion of samba and jazz").
What year is "Mad Men" set in this seventh and final season? Jesus, have I been watching this since 2007? You come to count on things, but you can't, not even climate, not even the sun.
Maybe I shouldn't have started with vodka after the gym. Then wine. What is left after dinner but. . . .
It was early. I was. . . I can't remember the Yiddish term. . . kerflunked or something like that. Out of sorts. I couldn't think of a thing I wanted to do. I listened to music. I sat at the computer. I looked through images I've taken but never processed. I found some things that were marvelous, things that are not to be shown here. I worked on one. Oh, it was so very, very beautiful and so. . . unmarketable. Who would ever buy it? Where could it ever be hung? No matter how beautiful, people just don't put that sort of thing in their homes. But, too beautiful to leave alone, I emailed it to some friends. They will like it. Best of all, it has a yellow chair against the old red background, a chair I've never shown in pictures before. I may use it again. And I want to print the picture big and bold. I have many like that, private images, "secret" things, as you can imagine. Are you here, Taschen? Are you hearing this?
Afterwards, I went to bed and began reading "The Flamethrowers." It didn't start with a bang, the language somehow too vague, the phrasing too weak. Reviewers must have liked the intricacies of the plot I'm guessing. Soon, I was checking emails (as I was reading on the iPad), and then I turned off the lights and drifted away.
And woke at four. Perhaps the liquor had worn off. I got up, went to the bathroom, drank some water, turned on a light in another room, and put on some music. That usually does it, but not this morning. There was no slipping back to sleep, and so, an hour later, I got up knowing that the day was going to hurt, that I would be tired this evening when a guest is supposed to arrive.
And now in the dark, sunrise still over an hour away, I drink coffee and listen to the Apple Radio station that I began with a song by the Gilbertos, the music soft and easy and so, so sixties (not the sixties you are thinking of, but the other one, the early one that was still the fifties, the Bossa Nova sixties, that "fusion of samba and jazz").
What year is "Mad Men" set in this seventh and final season? Jesus, have I been watching this since 2007? You come to count on things, but you can't, not even climate, not even the sun.
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