A good night.
We watched 2001: A Space Odyssey. Julia crashed sometime after the
Dawn of Man and before poor Frank’s birthday.
(Keeley: “You know, it’s called an ‘Odyssey’ and H.A.L. is a cyclops.
Did you ever think of that?”
Me: “No, no I hadn’t.”
Keeley: “I bet they did it on purpose.”
Me: “I bet they did.”
Sam: “What’d she say?”
Me: “Nothing. She was just being smarter than me. Again.”)
I carried Julia to bed. She wondered why. I told her it was something
dads did when their little girls were falling asleep on the sofa. She seemed to accept that at face value.
After she was safely stowed, Sam and I watched the X-Files. It’s our new thing.
He went to bed and I puttered around a bit, cleaning up and cursing
the fact that Chesterton thinks the pepper plant is just another
catbox to piss in.
And then I wrote for a bit, about clothes of all things — mostly
just working through some leftover pages and cleaning them up a bit,
nudging things along.
We’re back in the Solarium for the first time (again) and the tea is
ready to be poured.
I know this book will be finished, probably sometime around my
birthday. I honestly don’t know if it will be any good at all. There will be a lot of it, I know that. I’ve got one and a half notebooks full now (the term “notebooks” doesn’t do them justice, they’re hardbound and they’ve each got over two hundred pages to fill) and I expect I will need a third before it’s all written down. A smallish stack, I know. But I can still put my monkey hands on it and hope for evolution and enlightenment.
Snow tonight. And wind. And noisy people up the block, coming home late.
And now, bed for me.