Tuesday, July 31, 2012
The Frenchman returns late tonight.
Which means I'd better make the bed. I mean, it's always made before I get into it, but I keep very odd hours on my own. I've had three solid days of writing and may have turned into an apartment troll. This afternoon was rather distracted, with two black swallowtail butterflies (Papilio polyxenes) visiting the terrace on cue. And then there was intricate, dangerous-looking work being done on the steeple of the damaged church by two men whose hard hats made them look like ants - they seem to be removing the other spires entirely, stone by stone. So I was popping up and down a lot.
But I have my year's worth of chapters done, at last: New York, the Terrace and Food, and now revisions begin, starting at the beginning, with January. The first draft was written out of order, in batches of seasons. Writing about October today, the light outside was strangely cooperative. Sometimes, after writing about winter, say, I emerge from my laptop to be flummoxed by a terrace in full bloom.
Better vacuum, too. Bake something. Maybe banana and macadamia nut bread. Pick some flowers. Floss the cat.
Mix a bloody drink. Now. Perhaps with this:
The black currants have lost their black to the gin. Which is divine. No other word for it.