They kept on blooming like little children

Things I want to be one day:

  • A graphic designer (I’d like to learn how to make fonts, specifically. Angela knows how)
  • A photographer (the problem with stealing Grace’s DSLR is that I still won’t have her talent, though)
  • A writer
  • A copperplate calligrapher
  • Owner of at least two dogs and an additional menagerie of small beasts
  • A good wife
  • A happy mother
  • Graceful

Sometimes I daydream about A Room of My Own. I kind of miss mine, back in 208. We have a study here that’s quite sufficient, but I don’t really have time to use it, and it’s more Guion’s writing space anyhow. I dream of a room filled with paper and light and flowers and every imaginable type of writing utensil. The walls are jammed with books and photographs. Here, I could die without want.

Meanwhile, I liked this. It’s about the resurrection of marriage.

Madly in love after so many years of sterile complicity, they enjoyed the miracle of loving each other as much at the table as in bed, and they grew to be so happy that even when they were two worn-out people they kept on blooming like little children and playing together like dogs.

One Hundred Years of Solitude, Gabriel Garcia Marquez

We are taking an enormous batch of chili that Guion made over to Sam’s blue house tonight for dinner. I am looking forward to it–to that interesting burst of consciousness and quickness that comes from interacting will brand-new friends. I’ve felt it a lot lately: heightened, breathless social awareness. I like it. I wonder how long it will take to wear off.