All at once on a quiet Monday: people at my living room window. People on the phone. Plus another person for whom I’m attempting to secure a round-trip train ride to Paris. The flurry continues; I manage to eat a quiet lunch. While the phone rings and people re-appear at my window, wordpress goes funny on me: no more access to my admin pages but every reader selection I may wish to peruse is right there if I want it. I don’t want it. Delete the Following links – which may or may not have anything to do with recovering my admin pages. Who’s to know.
A name on the tip of consciousness. Even more important, the source of the name. When the mind plays that kind of game, I have to wonder if it’s an invitation to dig deeper or a signal to go ahead and invent something else, based on the snippet that surfaced while writing yesterday. Invention beckons, of course.
A funny day ahead today, meal-wise, with an invitation to lunch at… two thirty. The boy finishes work at one thirty, wants to show me his gratitude and his cooking skills. Two-thirty it is.
Plus: Nabokov on Dickens’ Bleak House. A website on anarchists. A father’s advice to his daughter. A French magistrate’s reflections on the interdependence between criminals and their prosecutors; more to the point, the co-existence of propriety and criminality in the same honorable members of society. (This does not preclude their co-existence in the less honorable ones too.)
Plus plus: photographed in light settling westward, a pot of cacti with the appearance of a bunch of alien life forms at a block party.