Yesterday I finished playing the game "Syberia II", reading the graphic novel "Preacher: Until the End of the World," and another fifty pages in "The War of Art." I paid a man to replace the band and battery in my watch, bought a couple wall calendars, had blood drawn, got stormed on, and baked an enchilada lasagna.
"Enchilada lasagna" is the best name for it. A multi-themed casserole. It didn't taste bad, but it was -- how you say -- heavy. The tacos morphed into burritos morphed into a 9x13 torte. Flexibility is the soul of domesticity.
The other big list caulking up the brain cracks is more of an introspective, year-in-review, what-did-you-learn, sort of thing. There's the bold bullet points, the boulders: new job, kitten, playwriting... and then there's the Indents, the little items, the pebbles. Enough time and pebbles shape you same as boulders. Pebbles are the authors I read, places I went, things people said... pebbles are the details.
The hard part is keeping the years segregated. Memory is too fluid and arbitrary to lend itself to the list format. But I try anyway. It'll be good to have on hand for when the Alzheimers sets in.
The bright side is my side!
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