receiving the set of five new books a couple of weeks ago, there’s been a great
gray blur in my brain---I liken it to that hazy fingerprint thing they put on
the TV screen to obscure the faces of the innocent.Nothing to talk about, nothing to relate.We’ve had some wonderful times together,
some lovely gatherings for meals and little parties; there’s been a little “work
toward” some houseguests who have had to cancel (babies due to arrive in a few
days!!) and a tiny bit of muchmuch MUCH- needed Fall house-straightening for the
closing-in to come.
no words come, so I just ramble amongst little snips from my journals, of bits
and pieces I jotted down when the ideas and phrases came to me in a “Hey---I
can use that someday,” but which seem to fit into no rhyme nor reasonable prose.They’re just snips and snaps which don’t
relate, but seemed like a good idea when they came to me.
sometime in future I’ll have reason to use them; probably not.
in a box:Cardbordeaux---say it fast
enough and it sounds as if it would be in the same set of furniture as Cabernet
A vegetable stand under a tent.
Prostitality:Parties for the sole purpose of getting guests to buy stuff
. .as many lives as Dent-slain Agragag.
prone to acrobatic sentences.
could never be a critic of anything, though I can think of wildly witty and
scathing and apropos reviews of books, television shows, movies, people’s
behavior and fashion and words, usually five minutes or the day after the
proper time (if there COULD be a proper time to take it upon myself to offer an
unsolicited opinion).I chuckle over the dishpan at an unsaid bon
mot or barb, telling and true, and I’m glad for the missed moment of
opportunity which saved my manners once again.But writing down and putting out there such reviews and criticisms as I
read and hear, with no holds barred, no bridge unburnt, no prisoners taken---I’ll
never have heart nor mind for such verbal vivisection.
OH, and beaten biscuits---I've made them. Once. Just as an
experiment on a lazy Saturday morning. They're like a cross amongst a Ritz
cracker and a dog biscuit and a Communion Wafer---the really hard, tough kind
found in Baptist churches, which, if they weren't tiny enough to get back there
and crunch between your back teeth, would do some serious dental damage. Or
hang out like a mint until they melt sometime between the grape juice and
"Just As I Am."
just sitting down “to write something,” without having an idea before the
start, feels like the typing equivalent of Ustinov’s Poirot in “Evil Under the Sun,”strutting hobble-footed across the beach
stones, puffed out and parading in that hideously magnificent bathing costume,
wetting toes, oar-stroking with his windmilling arms and emerging, wet-to-the-knees
with his invigorating pretense to exercise which had impressed no one save