I don't know why I've been so inattentive to the blog of late. I tend to think (although I like to toy with every other excuse in my head) that since the Maharishi has been in Buenos Aires (he left a week ago) I've been a bit of a miserable old sod. Environmental (the septic tank pump broke), filial (the girl child has been sick as sick can be; I now know that every Ear, Nose & Throat specialist also offers Botox & Rystaline options -- not, one assumes, for the sinus infection) canine (medial luxating patella worsening, also an ear the size of a cauliflower to contend with) and somnial* (when have I ever, honestly, been able to lay my head on the pillow and sleep sweetly for eight hours without so much as a hiccup?) issues notwithstanding, the truth of it is, dear reader, I miss my husband. I miss my husband in a Paul and Linda kind of way. It's not that we have spent every day of our lives together (tho' on and off for, yikes, 27-odd years seems to be a few short lifetimes) or that we never spend a day apart, but I'm just not particularly Vibrant or Interesting or Chipper when he isn't around. I'm not the fainting type, nor a sylph-like thing that slips into the shadows, but it's all a bit Dull without the M.
*somnial -- of, or pertaining to sleep, from the Latin word somnus (yeah, okay, I made it up)
Meanwhile, please do re-read The Great Gatsby. It was this month's book club selection, and I spent a marvelously thrilling evening discussing it. I wonder if there is a more perfect American novel?
And then, Minky & I have been listening to the audio version (read by Will Patton) of Jack Kerouac's On The Road (50th anniversary edition). Better heard than read, I contend (but this comes from an English dilettante, so what do I know?)
And one more plug for Anne Lamott's original staging of Word by Word which I recommend for anyone with an artistic pursuit. My epiphany will bore you, but it was an epiphany nonetheless.