Don't bother me, I'm reading
This continues an amazing Easter Week. It began "the afternoon of that day, the first day of the week," as Luke put it, when we, like Jesus in some of the gospel postResurrection appearances, had supper with friends. In awesome company, lamb dinner with thoughtful vegetables, choice of red wine so I had both. The most excellent appetizer, endive filled with pecans, walnuts and honey, sprinkled liberally with blue cheese. I don’t know what blue cheese, but it was superb. The day's highlight was a small boy summoning Grandfather Tom to come share his tent with him. Getting in the tent was easy, crawling out of the tent and standing up was less auspicious, an exercise in ludicrosity. So I must resume the deep kneebends I did faithfully for weeks after leaving Cleveland Clinic.
Here on the seventh floor, seagoing traffic this week has been extraordinary, several large ships coming and going each day. It may not be unusual: from our house we were deep inside and seldom saw so many ships, but here it’s being spectacular. A ship type that is new to me has the superstructure, bridge included, right up front in the bow, which must greatly improve vision for maneuvering.
Today is a free day, though I may go down to the gym in a few minutes, I’m not doing so well, shorter time than intended on the treadmill, reclining bike and elliptical. Same on the Monark hand crank do-jiggy,
Wednesday, walk. Breakfast. Long visit with friends at Greenwood, including making new friends. Someone's little lamb has been
asleep in Jesus a hundred years and more. Worked in my yard all the rest of the morning, trimming down front at the edge of the Bay until thoroughly beat. Too tired for lunch, tried a nap until TV blared the Boston trial verdicts. Guilty as charged including on all capital counts. Penalty phase next; not going there. It doesn't matter unless he's put on a sidewalk beside one of his own bombs in a pressure cooker, which cannot happen among civilized beings with any human decency.
Finally and best. Finally found my book and a new preferred author. The Story of J. 1990. Extracted and translated from Hebrew by David Rosenberg. Interpreted and commentary by Harold Bloom. Arrived by mail a couple days ago, opened yesterday afternoon and intrigued. Don’t bother, you wouldn’t approve of it, much less like it. Fascinated, I couldn’t care less what you think! I’m reading The Book of J and may not have time to fool with a sermon for Sunday, don’t bother me. "Life Is Good: Do What You Like, Like What You Do" my hat says, and I'm getting off the bus at that stop.
Time for deep kneebends.
Time for deep kneebends.
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