Oh, dear. I've gone all squishy inside. Can't help it. I met a boy, and although "nothing" has "happened", I have a really good feeling about this one. I don't have the slightest shred of evidence. It's lovely. He's lovely. Everything, even impending unemployment and grey, sullen, humid skies are somehow infected with the loveliness of it.
That is, however, no excuse for not writing in days and days. Mea culpa, amicae.
So I shall talk seriously about serious things. For example, that JT (world-famous recorder player and KK's teacher) coached us on the Marais trio for a couple hours on Sunday. Suddenly, French music is hard all over again; you see, I thought I'd learned something, that I knew something about rhythm, about elegance, about grace. Nope. It and its long-dead composer always have the last laugh. [The Boy is a musician. He's coming over Sunday to play with my harpsichord!]
You wouldn't recognize my house. It's ... clean. The kitchen is again bearable, nay, even pleasant. In the front room is a lovely large table with fresh[ish] flowers on it. The r�camier is again accessible and the floor doesn't stick to you. This is why I've been staying home a lot, between how pleasant it is to be home, how much work it takes to keep it like this, how cheap it is to cook for myself again (and I, for one, like my cooking) and how silly I feel for having spent so much time and money avoiding having a nice little domestic space to come home to. Moreover, CABLE. For the first time in my life, I live in a place with cable television. O brave new world, that hath such programs on it! My hard-won pop-cultural savvy might have come so much easier if I'd just spent a few summers sitting around in my underwear watching VH-1. But don't get too worried; I still can't watch television for more than two hours (read: the distance between Buffy and Angel, the longest I've ever tested) without getting slightly queasy. And soon, my pretties, the cable television will bring over its mate, cable modem. Rare and wonderful! Not having to curtail my prose so as not to hog the phone too terribly, and, best of all, being able to go onto the special naughty chat rooms in the privacy of my own room. [All of which will be moot when my Handsome (tall, blonde, funny) Prince sweeps me off my feet on Sunday].
Focus. Focus. Focus.
Ech, it's too hard to concentrate. Ask me another.
[exit, pursued by a bear singing, "How Long Has This Been Going On?"]
--a