If you look at this picture you can see the turret adjoining my room. Just look to the far right and up. But if you look at this picture, you can see that this floor did not exist back when Ole Half Head was alive.
Therefore I’m assuming he won’t come up here looking for me.
Words I don’t know—
Sicalíptico
Cupleteras
Things that seem like they might amuse me if I were fluent—
“En España se escriben novelas eróticas porque el amore es aún una aventura inaseqible; al meno, infrecuente. Toda la literatura que con el amor se relaciona tiene en este país el mísmo atractivo que caracterizaba a los libros de viajes en los tiempos en que viajar era temerario y apenas conocía cada uno su propia ciudad.”
“La sensualidad pervertida se pone cachonda.”
“En el juicio le acusan de haber usado lost sarados cálices para beber el semen de sus adorados jóvenes. Él, entre el cinismo y la perversión, lo niega y asegura: ‘eso es falso. Siempre lo he bebido directamente sin reipiented alguno.'”
I’m sitting here listening to a ragtime version of “Just a Closer Walk with Thee.” People seem on the verge of dancing. I ask you to imagine anyone dancing to “Just a Closer Walk with Thee.” It just cracks me up. Although, maybe we’d all be better off if we danced to hymns.
Here’s another version it’s nearly impossible not to dance to:
I also saw a guy playing the guitar and singing what, upon closer listen, turned out to be “The Weight.” I wish I’d had a way to record it because the guy was somehow a fabulous guitar player (though I contend he was not playing the song he was singing) but such a terrible singer. I’m talking unrecognizeable and out of tune and funny as hell.
I bought some souverniers–a small sawgrass basked (I mean, they wear you down with their friendliness and the braiding on the rim. I’m just one person. How can I resist?), a couple of glass net floats, and a pound of prailines for the Butcher.
I walked around the weekly farmer’s market and then down to the regular market and then around and around. As you might have guessed, I kind of played hookey from the last day of the conference. I feel bad, but I’m pretty sure it was more “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh, library! Living or dead?!”
I almost paid $20 for a tour but I thought, “No, Heather is coming. If there’s anything worth knowing, she will tell me.” Ha.
Now I have to settle in and force myself to read about Spanish pornography. It just goes to show, no matter how pleasant the task, once it’s required, it’s hard to enjoy.
If you’re at a fairly expensive restaurant in Charleston and you order the crab cakes with cottage fries and bacon cole slaw, why are you, and by you, I mean me, finding fish scales in said crab cakes? Wouldn’t a crab cake no longer be a crab cake if it has other fish in it?
So, Beth is always sending me these emails that are like “I can bring you some wisteria. Do you want some moonflowers? Can I bring you an Angel Trumpet cutting?” and I’m always scurrying off to the internet to see what the heck she’s talking about beause I’m not always sure I know what she’s talking about.
I especially had no idea what an Angel Trumpet was. Even seeing it on the internet… well, I thought it looked cool, but who knows?
They are all over Charleston. All over. And they’re so beautiful. People have them in gardens and in giant containers and out in the street where a girl can stop and sniff them.
I can’t wait to see if I can cultivate it myself.
I had this dream last night, which some of you will appreciate. I dreamed that the Butcher and I moved to a new house (which was really an old 19th century townhome dealy) and the Butcher had painted everything these weird colors and let a baby move in with us. I kept insisting that we could not keep the baby. The Butcher kept insisting that it would be awesome because the baby would pay rent. And then he turns to me and says, “Mack’s a hurricane.”
I have been thinking about that all morning–Mack’s a hurricane. I don’t know what that means, but it seems right. And I’m left wondering what kind of job the baby had that would bring in rent…
Weird.
Tiny Cat Pants 