I swing madly back and forth between two fantasies. The first involves living alone in a cabin in the woods. The second has something to do with owning a restaurant, making killer soup, and listening to people talk all day. In the end I’ll probably end up staying home, not making soup, not listening to stories, not enjoying the woods, just vacuuming dog hair out of the carpet all day. I’m very optimistic about my fantasies. In case it wasn’t apparent, I’ve been cleaning house today.
The English club sponsored a showing of The Libertine last night at IUSB (Johnny Depp, John Malkovich), all about John Wilmot, the Earl of Rochester. And you thought the English were boring. No, no, just misunderstood. Or perhaps the interesting ones all died of syphilis a couple of centuries ago. Interesting people seem to have high mortality rates. I wonder what the next film will be.
If you’re working on the poetry exercise, I hope it is going good for you. Unfortunately, the beginning phrase has me blocked. Oranges and Dramanine remind me of drinking screwdrivers, eating Doritos, and puking all over my husband’s apartment, not the one on Ironwood Road, the other one, the one with the cerulean blue carpet. Yes, the words spark memories, but certainly there are more poetic things. If the exercise uncovers them for you, let me know. There’s one more exercise on the sheet I’ll post in a week or so, after the last one has settled.