I was silent because every time I thought to open a terminal window to type,
my content was but grievances, and some of you are already grieving for
something else, and every reader, if I have any, deserves better.
It's a dark grey late afternoon here, and I am making veal paprika. I bought
tops at the thrift store today, and palo santo incense from the store closing
to make room for the expanding Japanese restaurant. On my way home I found
a wallet, I walked to the Community Police Office but it did not open for
another hour. The day, I repeat, is dark and gloomy, and I regret not
replacing my burnt out bulb in my Daylight Simulation Lamp, and it is wet.
I called the police, outside the building, to report found property.
If anyone believes in cosmic coincidence, the owner of the lost wallet and I
share the same birthdate. My options, I was told: wait until an hour then
go into the community police office; supply my address so an officer comes
to retrieve the found property; or drive to the Cop Shop. I chose the latter,
fantasizing about the ways, non-fiduciary, the owner of the wallet could
thank me:
- fixing my hall light
- vacuuming out the flies that invaded my outdoor electric outlet
- take my mentally incapacitated son shopping for real clothes that fit and
make him look good
None of that happened.
I rinsed my fountain pens. I need a new Sailor convrter, those are delicate.
An officer telephoned and directed me to surrender the Found property at the
front of my residence. All good.
I tried baking. I kept the oven too warm and now my rolls are flattish. They
taste okay, done, fluffy, nutmeg and sweet, but they're not appealing.
I restored my sleep hygiene with qigong movements, gentle stretches,
fermented dairy, and calcium citrate. Megadosing Vitamin D3 requires
magnesium, but also calcium, and it took Adelle Davis' _Let's Eat Right
to Keep Fit_ paperback to tell me this. The internet is useless in a
post-truth society, except, with careful parameters for helping me with
trivia and other things I asked flesh-and-blood carbon-based units, who
rebuffed me.
I am working on The Researcher's First Murder by John Finnemore. I welcome
assistance with image editing, music recognition (I supply the notes, you
tell me the tune), Cockney Rhyming slang. John Finnemore signed my copy,
courtesy of a loving and lovable friend in Islington, London, UK.
If you don't have a gopher phlog, let me know how you're doing. By that, I
mean, tell me what you love in life, what keeps you buoyant, or ask me for
the name of my late husband's immigration lawyer.
And to the desperate, I am still widowed, and still living in Canada, but
now I have a bidding price.
