But instead I agreed to babysit, because I need the cash. My brother had a friend over, so they kept to themselves.
It started snowing. The first snow of the season.
I made some hot tea, popped a bowl of popcorn, curled up on the couch, and finished Collected Fictions by Jorge Luis Borges, which was wonderful and surreal and, in a strange way, perfect for a snowy night in New Jersey.
And after a long, stressful week, and what looks like a truly hellish holiday on the horizon, it was just a really pleasant evening.
- LV
PS Of course, after reading so much Borges I start to think that maybe I'm not myself, that I'm just a dream of a dream of myself, or that another version of me, older and bitter, is going to wander by and threaten me with my own future, or that I'll go outside for a cigarette and find two dark, dangerous men in a knife-fight, and I will be thrown to the winner as chattel, or that when I step outside the air won't be cold and crisp, but hot and arid, and I will be in the labyrinth with the minotaur, and a blue tiger will be on my tail (or is it the tail of my dream?).
So I'm going to go smoke a cigarette, believe in reality, and read Heat: An Amateur's Adventures as Kitchen Slave, Line Cook, Pasta-Maker, and Apprentice to a Dante-Quoting Butcher in Tuscany, because cooking is about order and precision, and Mario Batali would SHANK anyone's dream who dared wander into his kitchen.
PPSS On the TV, I just noticed this OLD Nickelodeon short called "The Prometheus and Bob Tapes" and I laughed out loud. Anyone remember it? Aliens and cavemen? Little clay people? AWESOME. I miss Nickelodeon before it sucked.
It started snowing. The first snow of the season.
I made some hot tea, popped a bowl of popcorn, curled up on the couch, and finished Collected Fictions by Jorge Luis Borges, which was wonderful and surreal and, in a strange way, perfect for a snowy night in New Jersey.
And after a long, stressful week, and what looks like a truly hellish holiday on the horizon, it was just a really pleasant evening.
- LV
PS Of course, after reading so much Borges I start to think that maybe I'm not myself, that I'm just a dream of a dream of myself, or that another version of me, older and bitter, is going to wander by and threaten me with my own future, or that I'll go outside for a cigarette and find two dark, dangerous men in a knife-fight, and I will be thrown to the winner as chattel, or that when I step outside the air won't be cold and crisp, but hot and arid, and I will be in the labyrinth with the minotaur, and a blue tiger will be on my tail (or is it the tail of my dream?).
So I'm going to go smoke a cigarette, believe in reality, and read Heat: An Amateur's Adventures as Kitchen Slave, Line Cook, Pasta-Maker, and Apprentice to a Dante-Quoting Butcher in Tuscany, because cooking is about order and precision, and Mario Batali would SHANK anyone's dream who dared wander into his kitchen.
PPSS On the TV, I just noticed this OLD Nickelodeon short called "The Prometheus and Bob Tapes" and I laughed out loud. Anyone remember it? Aliens and cavemen? Little clay people? AWESOME. I miss Nickelodeon before it sucked.
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