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OceanSwell of Zenith
Jun. 17th, 2020 10:20 pmI attempted to post yesterday, but it hung up and churned, and then vanished. This almost never happens, but last night it did. I know one should do everything on a platform that saves automatically, and then copy it. Or type it in and copy it before posting. But taking such precautions makes it all seem so serious that my brain would be tempted to just skip it. It's a delicate balance. Yesterday I made a batch of oatmeal and three loaves of bread. I enjoyed feeling wealthy and peaceful making bread again, because I have plenty of flour and yeast now. It's also good to have these things because I'm kinda living on oatmeal and toast, and the occasional bowl of soup. My stomach is still not doing well. I did eat some ice cream tonight, because ice cream seldom does any harm.
Last night I was writing about the box of stuff from my parents that I looked through. And I say "looked through" and NOT "sorted," or "disposed of" or anything indicating an actual accomplishment. My mother had a talent for assembling little collections of incommensurable things. She created these all over the house. Some of the boxes I inherited are collections of collections, world within world. This box I was looking at was one fractal portion of such a box of boxes. A list of all that was in it would be a yard long. I found a stack of yellow cards holding the records of my smallpox vaccination, with those of my baby brother and parents. Hey, I guess you never know when you might need to prove you've been vaccinated against smallpox! There was my class photo from kindergarten at Northside School. My teacher looked so much more normal and less intimidating than I remembered her. I found her quite terrifying, and I'm glad to see she was probably just an ordinary young woman. I saw my brother's First Communion picture: dozens of girls in white dresses and wide-eyed little boys in white shirts, among whom he is completely indistinguishable. Maybe with a magnifying glass? The prize of the lot was probably the 8x10 glossy print of my father with Henry Kissinger, along with a note from someone at the Alumni Association: "Thought you would like the enclosed picture of the great day!" WHAT great day?? I guess I'll never know. I was interested to find a small stash of rejection slips that had been saved for all eternity. My father submitted stories to the Ladies Home Journal--twice! That beats me. I only tried Redbook once. I think I might have pitched them a non-fiction article once, too, but that didn't work either. It lacked bullet points. He also submitted work (presumably not the same work) to Commentary magazine and Little Golden Books. (The thing he sent to Commentary was a poem about the atom bomb that I also found a copy of. He wasn't a fan.) Simon and Schuster, on behalf of Little Golden Books, told him, "We are sorry to say that we find no way of fitting this material into our juvenile program." Well, isn't that always the way! I find no way of fitting this material into my program, either. I put the lid back on the box and tiptoed away.
The bookstore has reopened, with precautions, and we went there for the first time in months. I hoped it would cheer me up. It didn't, though. It was just sad because everything is different now. (Another thing in my mother's box was a snapshot of the vacant lot where her grandmother's house used to stand. Documentation of nonexistence!) There's a person sitting in front of the door, counting everyone so they'll know if they reach their limit. You have to wear a mask and sanitize your hands on entry. One does not feel free to handle the books. You pretty much have to decide on sight if you want it. This eliminates the pleasure of browsing. The cafe is open, in a manner of speaking, but with a list of things they don't want you to do, which includes most of the things I like to do in a cafe. You can buy a sandwich, eat it in solitary splendor, and then get the hell out. The list specifically requests "No lingering." Well, I ask you--what's the point of a cafe without lingering? I'm not saying they're wrong. To avoid infection, we have to do/not do all these things. But, sadly, the bookstore is not a place that cheers me up under those conditions. I'm glad they're open, though, and I'll make sure to buy things from them in the hope that they will survive.
Last night I was writing about the box of stuff from my parents that I looked through. And I say "looked through" and NOT "sorted," or "disposed of" or anything indicating an actual accomplishment. My mother had a talent for assembling little collections of incommensurable things. She created these all over the house. Some of the boxes I inherited are collections of collections, world within world. This box I was looking at was one fractal portion of such a box of boxes. A list of all that was in it would be a yard long. I found a stack of yellow cards holding the records of my smallpox vaccination, with those of my baby brother and parents. Hey, I guess you never know when you might need to prove you've been vaccinated against smallpox! There was my class photo from kindergarten at Northside School. My teacher looked so much more normal and less intimidating than I remembered her. I found her quite terrifying, and I'm glad to see she was probably just an ordinary young woman. I saw my brother's First Communion picture: dozens of girls in white dresses and wide-eyed little boys in white shirts, among whom he is completely indistinguishable. Maybe with a magnifying glass? The prize of the lot was probably the 8x10 glossy print of my father with Henry Kissinger, along with a note from someone at the Alumni Association: "Thought you would like the enclosed picture of the great day!" WHAT great day?? I guess I'll never know. I was interested to find a small stash of rejection slips that had been saved for all eternity. My father submitted stories to the Ladies Home Journal--twice! That beats me. I only tried Redbook once. I think I might have pitched them a non-fiction article once, too, but that didn't work either. It lacked bullet points. He also submitted work (presumably not the same work) to Commentary magazine and Little Golden Books. (The thing he sent to Commentary was a poem about the atom bomb that I also found a copy of. He wasn't a fan.) Simon and Schuster, on behalf of Little Golden Books, told him, "We are sorry to say that we find no way of fitting this material into our juvenile program." Well, isn't that always the way! I find no way of fitting this material into my program, either. I put the lid back on the box and tiptoed away.
The bookstore has reopened, with precautions, and we went there for the first time in months. I hoped it would cheer me up. It didn't, though. It was just sad because everything is different now. (Another thing in my mother's box was a snapshot of the vacant lot where her grandmother's house used to stand. Documentation of nonexistence!) There's a person sitting in front of the door, counting everyone so they'll know if they reach their limit. You have to wear a mask and sanitize your hands on entry. One does not feel free to handle the books. You pretty much have to decide on sight if you want it. This eliminates the pleasure of browsing. The cafe is open, in a manner of speaking, but with a list of things they don't want you to do, which includes most of the things I like to do in a cafe. You can buy a sandwich, eat it in solitary splendor, and then get the hell out. The list specifically requests "No lingering." Well, I ask you--what's the point of a cafe without lingering? I'm not saying they're wrong. To avoid infection, we have to do/not do all these things. But, sadly, the bookstore is not a place that cheers me up under those conditions. I'm glad they're open, though, and I'll make sure to buy things from them in the hope that they will survive.
