27 November 2003 - 7:48 p.m.
"Sometimes lousy writing days are lousy writing days because you're still figuring something out, and you're not quite ready to let yourself know what it is. And sometimes they’re just days when your head doesn’t want to do the thing where anything worthwhile ever seems to make it out of your fingertips."
Ayup. Drab but mild outside, mild but drab internally.
But I have brilliant friends, droll pets, an abundance of books. . . and the food has been good: dinner at Alley Cat and dessert at Margot's with Statos, Ter, and the BYM Tuesday night; a traditional Thanksgiving feast with the parents-in-law yesterday evening; and today, frying pancakes and bacon after sleeping in. After coming back from the grocery, I baked gingerbread and focaccia. The cioppino is almost done: it's got tomatoes from my mother's garden and basil from mine, and all that's left to add is the seafood - the store was out of mussels, so I'm substituting scallops and oysters, plus shrimp - whenever the BYM and I decide it's time for supper.
Seen over at Naomi Chana's LiveJournal:
Current reading: Bits of Geoffrey Block's These Enchanted Evenings: The Broadway Musical from Show Boat to Sondheim (I managed to catch part of the 1999 National Theatre Oklahoma! on tv last week; still not keen on that particular musical, but it - and the ads for Angels in America - have me a bit wistful; too many interests, not enough lives. Yeah, we should all have such problems.). One year ago, I was reading Brian Cox's Lear Diaries.
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