Weekends I sleep. It is hot and I have taken to drinking freshly squeezed lemon water and reading until I am sleepy. Then I nap. It is the loveliest thing I know right now. It feels like a present. A little music, and . . . .
Ili says she likes all the piles of books and artifacts lying on floors and table tops around the house. It is studied, of course, and it is is both decorative and practical. I ran out of bookshelf space years ago. The bookshelves stay full, but somehow the wine rack is always empty. A bottle of wine takes much less time than a book.
Cucumber water sounds nice, too. I have been drinking more water than I have in years. It is healthy, I am told. There are definitely some differences. I shall keep at it for a while and see.
I went to two birthday parties on Saturday. It is the most interaction I have had with other people this year, I think. People scare me, or I scare myself, but there is always the chance that something will go wrong. It doesn't take long, just one slip--a phrase, a glance at someone else's lover. I was taken aback at the first party by the verbal attack on an old friend by the hostess's boyfriend. At first I thought it a mistake, but it became unrelenting. I watched to see how my friend would react. He seemed uncertain. When it happened again, it was time for me to go. That is always the appropriate thing. No need for any other response. A sudden exit is vague enough. Fortunately, everyone knew I had another party to attend.
Sunday morning after two parties called for a greasy diner breakfast. We went to a little hipster diner, except the hipsters apparently were still in bed. We ate with the old people. Eggs and bacon and orange juice, then an obligatory trip to my mother's to see a visiting cousin. And then. . .
Oh, god, it was good to be back home with the music and the books and the lemon water. . . then an artisanal nap. Naps are good, but artisanal naps are sheer heaven.
Now it is back to the factory which is anything but artisanal. I will quash my bohemian ways for a bit and make some money to pay the painters and repairmen and everyone else with their hands out. It is too hot for photography here anyway. The light is flat so that looking at anything is like looking at a piece of tin. I could make pictures at the beach, maybe, but I do not live at the beach and I am afraid of people just now. They are erratic and as unpredictable as mad dogs.
What they all need, I think, is a good, artisanal nap.