A watched pot does too boil.

7 October 2006

Finished a few days ago the sofabench, my attempt to avoid finding somebody else's tired couch . . . and while the final product is not very comfortable, but it does look pretty cool, and it was fun to build. Doing so required two essential actions: turning screws, which hold the join between back and seat, and pulling thread through the pillows that, sewn together, are the seat cushion.

The two actions, though equally important, were essentially different: turning a screw as hard as possible focuses the body's whole energy on a single motion. Sewing the cushions, meanwhile, requires a more patient effort. I wonder what habits of mind each cultivates, when done regularly.

5 October 2006

Today was one of those immaculately crisp and bright early fall days, a little essence of which you want to capture in a (green glass) bottle and inhale on a cold short winter day, or an airless summer night.

A friend's nephew was shot in the arm last night by his ex-girlfriend's new crew. (They also shot his new girlfriend in the leg.) Fortunately the injuries are not serious. Asked by my friend how he got himself into a place in life where relationships begin and end, as one is obligated by the law of unavoidable puns to say, with a bang, he replied: "I guess I have to stop dating strippers."

Usually when I visit home, I like to take with me on the airplane back a bottle of my mother's tea, which I can never make quite the same way, even with the same ingredients. This is no longer permitted.

While in the security line this evening, I watched the screening agent examine every fluid or gel-filled container, squeeing tubes of Noxzema creme, and so on; he was a thick man with muscular, hairy forearms and a granite demeanor, and obviously felt as ridiculous as he looked.

On the plane the stewardess announced, as has apparently become the custom on American, her own name and that of the pilots, so as to make the experience more familial; but most families are, of course, dysfunctional, and I would rather they maintain the sterile reassurance of anonymity.

The visit home was deeply satisfying, and passed too quickly. Like bark from a birch tree, a little of my stress sloughed off, though only a layer.