The unstoppable march of Progress
Well, and how are things progressing?
That's how I think about things lately: they are progressing. Slowly Alice and I are getting our kitchen in order, lining up spice bottles on spice racks and baking and mixing molasses and sugar to make brown sugar and putting fruit in baskets. It feels luxurious to have a kitchen with fruit in baskets, flour and sugar and rice in jars, frozen fruit in the freezer and fresh fruit in baskets and tinned fruit in the cupboards and veg coming in and out from the fruit stand or farmer's market too quickly to keep in one place. My mother's favorite book growing up was, I guess, the little Golden book The Little Gardeners or something like that -- I don't remember the title. But I do remember the prosperous safe images in it: the gardeners hoeing, packing their produce up in jars and tins, putting it in neat rows on shelves. I don't really think I understood why that idea was so compelling until now.
I've been reading since school got out: The Fountainhead, Captain Blood, Scaramouche, Cold Mountain, The Bewildered. It puts me in a writing mood again, but I am not sure whether to attribute that mood to the reading or to missing Nick. It strikes me that I am always more interested in writing when I'm alone, which is I suppose par for the course. I do it sitting out on the front lawn so I am already browner than last week.
Tomorrow I will walk to Saturday Market with people. I'm looking forward to it, and looking forward to making it a weekly occurrence.
It feels good to have a house that's somewhat in order and, hopefully, a self that's somewhat in order also. I look forward to starting thesis as if from a clean slate.
