I'm laying on Jesse's side of the bed, the window is cracked and the outside air is drifting around me. It's not even a breeze--just a cool, liquid softness, tripping over coldness. My chest has that heaviness from splitting two bottles of wine between three adults last night at our Tuesday night family dinner (Charlie brought a bottle with a mouse named Gertie on it). My toes are getting cold so I will get up soon to make a second mug of tea. But the sun flexing gently in a cover of clouds and a helicopter is hovering distantly and the hardware store across the street just lifted their screeching gate. Which means their fat cat ran eagerly to the door and is now getting fed. Someone is coughing mildly on the sidewalk four floors below. Its all mildly muted. I even vaguely have to sneeze. So vaguely.
Margot and I watched pigeons mating on the roof across the street earlier. Earlier today.
I'm vaguely researching a new to me writer. She wrote a perfectly named book : Novel on Yellow Paper". I found it at the Strand a few weeks ago and instantly wanted to buy a legal pad and write feverishly on a hot afternoon. But then there was a weird racial bit when I flipped through it so I didn't get it for the cart. I'm so afraid of inadvertently endorsing racism with an old book in the cart. In my research this morning it sounds like she publicly apologized and/or expressed regret for it. I suppose thats a good thing as long as people know the context. Mistakes out-grown and accounted for can only be a positive thing to witness. Mistakes out-grown.