I’d like to wake up one morning and understand it all, just be able to hold the world in my hands, part God’s curtain, and see. Instead I get scraps of paper, electronic jolts, incomprehensible dreams. Somewhere between pages 1 and 245 in The Collected Stories of Eudora Welty are words to the effect, when you’re looking for something, everything is a sign. I didn’t mark the page, but I think that’s close enough to the theme. The curtains do part, occasionally. There are signs. Sometimes I see the hand pulling the string and I laugh. I’m reminded of one of Robert Heinlein’s old books, I can’t remember which one, where the woman becomes God, or something like that, and is busy washing the stairs. What do I do with these keys? It all seems funny to me.
I ordered new books and they have arrived. In the Middle Distance by Linda Gregg, Streets in Their Own Ink by Stuart Dybek, and The Women Were Leaving the Men by Andy Mozina. I’ve sampled each and they all seem good. I think I’m going to like Linda Gregg.
The Robins are teaching Fledgling to fly. I was amazed at how quickly Fledgling was ready to go. I just saw its whole head for the first time two days ago. We all hope it ends well. We scooped Fledgling up from our back porch last night, pulled out the ladder and popped it back in its nest after momma and poppa started dive bombing our cats. I held it while Gene got the ladder. I think it has its mother’s eyes.
After the Fledgling drama subsided we watched Mrs. Henderson Presents, my daughter’s Netflix pick. Jojo has incredibly good taste, even if she isn’t too hot at washing cars. It was a great movie, got me thinking again about desire in relationship to joy, and laughing about breasts, which is always a good thing.