Wednesday, Apr. 17, 2002 - 9:20 am Ap�sl�min ida corbalanyrtne 'ls�o rohl'daathi�m v� nen�a iroyss�rd.
I started this last Sunday, the 14th:
I write some of these journal entries at my computer, but most of them are scratched out on a quad pad, which is how I'm writing this one. I'm writing this in the library. I always feel more than slightly pretentious when I call this room "the library", but there's no better word for it. It's the room where I shelve most of my books. But a library, to me, is a room that belongs to a stately mansion. This room began as a bedroom for my grandparent's three children, then became my grandfather's study after they were grown. I've been told this is a big house (12 rooms, 3 baths, plus the studio), and I learned exactly what it and the attached 4 acres was worth when I refinanced the loan. But that doesn't make much of an impression on me. The price of real estate around here, while not the silliest in Calif, is still fairly ludicrous. I know what my grandfather paid for these 4 acres, and I know how much it cost him to build this house. Dirt cheap by today's standards, but even in its day, this house was not expensive. My grandfather had to work hard for his money, and this was never a rich man's home. It was never the least bit stately, it was never any kind of a mansion. But now it has the pretension of a library.So. I'm in the library, writing in my quad pad, on an oak-topped desk, an old schoolteacher's desk, with battle scars. An armful of spider mums, their color a mauve so silvery they almost seem gray, sprawled in a large vase beside me on the desk.....And that's as far as I got. I've been too busy to write since. I'm too busy to write now. But I did take a moment to write a couple of notes to Medusa. This is one of them:"I missed a chance to see a showing of Pierre et Gilles originals in San Francisco, last spring, while I was visiting a friend in the Bay area. I had to cut my vacay short and rush home to avert a familial debacle. The oldest and craziest of my sisters had absconded with my father's ashes, her departure for India was imminent, she was enthralled with a plan to fling what remained of my father over the muck of the Ganges. (Lolly never 'gets an idea' like normal people. Her ideas pounce upon her, and ravish her, and enslave her.) For myself, I didn't mind the thought of flakes of my father floating south to the Bay of Bengal, but my mother objected, and I'm pretty sure my father would have objected too."
Sa r'ji�o oss�vel meninonceiv �o poshik m�'�nch uscantebatahla o�r musiu o�r muiko.
Copyright � 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005 by gcs
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