Dogs Halp Take Pictures: A Photo Essay
I mean, really, dogs are fine until they decide to leap for the phone you're holding. On the other hand, the results are far more artistic than anything you'd have thought to do yourself.
Trying a completely different ensemble, again in the interest of wearing everything in my closet. I had taken these cotton-blend ponte-knit pants to Texas with me and not worn them, but thought I'd put them on today. I've had these pants since sometime between 2012 and 2014, when skinny jeans were coming back in. They were a Walmart clearance-rack impulse buy, of the kind I haven't made in nearly two years now, which is both startling and a relief to realize. Anyway, they were hardly an ethical purchase, but I've worn them a heck of a long time, as is probably evident. Granted, I haven't washed them since the last time I wore them, but even so, they don't fit quite as smoothly as I would love for them to. But they are reasonably comfortable, and they're charcoal gray, not black, which is important to me. I'd be more tempted to replace them with something better if it were easier to find wool-knit trousers, especially, in anything other than black. Anyway, I'm not going anywhere special today, and I'd wash them if I were going to wear them in some social setting, and . . . yeah, they're fine. They're a good example of the thing in your closet being better than the thing that isn't in your closet.
Wearing them today with this soft ragg-knit cotton pullover (Liz Claiborne, thrifted, owned for 3-4 years, I think) over a merino tee for extra warmth. I need to crank the heat down in the house, actually, because at this moment, sitting in the kitchen, I'm hot. I also decided to go with something other than Doc Martens on my feet today. I had ordered two pairs of Boody bamboo socks –– socks, tights, and underwear being exemptions from my no-buy rule –– and they came today.
These are "chunky bed socks," and as you can see, they are indeed chunky. I had ordered these because I thought they might stay up in my slightly-too-big Docs –– socks that slide down drive me insane –– and be good socks for hiking year-round. These are the dusty-pink pair; I also have a pair in "dove," which is a kind of light heathered blue-gray.
So far, having worn them for half an hour, I like them a lot. They're soft, and my feet are very warm. I wore this pair today at least partly because, as you can see, I don't have any winter shoes (except my Docs) which are either light enough or colorful enough to make a really striking frame for an outfit like this, with dark trousers. The brown Madeiras do provide some contrast, but I thought that the addition of a lighter sock in a contrasting-but-harmonious color would add a little frame, given that it's too cold for bare ankles, which would have been my other choice. Anyway, I don't know how well it really works as a style move, but my feet feel good. I also like the chunkiness of the Birkenstocks as a balance for the relative sleekness of the trousers.
As is typical in the winter, my hair is relatively straight. I think this is Day 6 –– I think I last washed it on Saturday –– but it feels fine, just maybe silkier and smoother, especially after having been worn up in various ways for some days. I was wearing it just down, but then pulled back the front in this claw clip, which I think I want to like more than I do. It's a bit bulky-looking:
But it does hold a lot of hair quite firmly, and I like the blush-pink color.
I'll continue to play with it.
So far this morning I've written and revised roughly 700 words of fiction, playing with characters I've been writing for twenty years now, but have not been able to form a real story around. Yet I keep coming back to them. By now I know them well, with all their backstory –– and after reading all these murder mysteries it's occurred to me that maybe that's what this story wants to be. Something of import needs to happen at the story's center, and I need to have an idea what it is, what I might be building toward, even though I continue to anticipate that the characters will teach me things about themselves that I don't know.
I did, out of the blue yesterday, jot down the following little scene. Polly is a character with whom I am well acquainted: a woman in her thirties who has entered a convent, stayed almost to the moment of her final profession of vows, but at the last minute has discerned out, though she doesn't have a clear sense of why. Mrs. Evans just appeared in this scene. I've never written her before. She's either a cleaning lady or else a night nurse for Polly's ancient grandmother, whose care Polly assumes on leaving her religious order. I have no idea what precedes this little exchange.
Polly laughed. “True enough, Mrs. Evans. I am.”
“But ––”
“What is it you want to say? That I don’t seem nearly enough like the Whore of Babylon?”
“Well, not in so many words.”
I cracked myself up, writing not in so many words.
Anyway, back to that, or to something. I haven't written a children's-lit column for this month, and am waiting for the editor to write and ask me whether I'm still alive, or what. I need to do some reading to prepare for a Zoom event in February, sponsored by Able Muse Press, in which my friend Maryann Corbett and I will be reading translations by the late poet and translator John Ridland. Maryann is far more familiar with John Ridland's Middle English translations than I am; I need to make myself familiar.
And then I need to train the dog, dust-mop the floors, empty some wastebaskets, and any number of other little tasky-type tasks. Putting on my excited face.
LATER:
Dog halp. Dog are support animal.
