Dahlia of Bliss
Apr. 20th, 2023 10:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ismoHaving a better day today, in spite of still having lost the plot when it comes to writing. I was happy this morning when Queenie texted to say that the Queen Elizabeth II Commemorative Tins of Walker's Shortbread that I ordered as a small birthday gift for her had arrived. From one Queenie to another. One reason I decided to order it is that the picture of the young queen at Balmoral with a favorite dog reminded me of my sister when she was young. She was, of course, much more beautiful than the queen. She had a dear little dog, too, who died recently, alas. She says people found the dog troublesome, but I loved her. We got along well and she seemed to like me. I'm lucky that way. My friends' dogs have liked me, so far. Dragonfly's dog, who is very old now and finds it hard to walk, still comes to the door eagerly when I arrive. Dragonfly says he "feels the energy." I suspect that dogs think I smell good, which may not be a compliment from a human point of view, but I'll take it. My sister says she'll never get another dog. She was too fond of Mia, and doesn't want any more heartbreak. Anyway, her present arrived, which was a great satisfaction to me, and we had a brief birthday chat during which I sang her the song.
I did some grocery shopping. I found a half-price pie, marked "cherry," and carried it home in triumph for the Sparrowhawk. When cut into, it was found to be rhubarb! Woe! He likes rhubarb too, but I am irked by such incompetence. This evening we went to a poetry reading by my erstwhile friend the Poet, whom I haven't seen in ages because of covid and whatnot. Part of the whatnot is her husband's extremely exigent dietary regulations. I know it would be perfectly okay to serve him wine and raw vegetables, but somehow I just can't wrap my head around this. It seems so wrong. Anyway, she read from her latest collection, which is prose poems about her world travels--vivid little snapshots that encapsulate so many condensed insights and emotions within a few hundred words. There were 60 people in the audience! And not all of them were even a million years old! I swear to God. Also a long line of people wanting their book signed afterwards, including myself. She's going to Poland again in June to take part in a workshop wherein she'll travel around the country. I'm not jealous exactly--just kind of goggling in stupefaction at this spectacle of success. I feel like the poor cousin from Ireland. This is the kind of thing one imagines as a writer, but it doesn't really happen. However . . . after the reading, her abstemious husband announced refreshments--a couple of plastic bottles of fizzy water and a packet of storebought cookies. Dig in, folks! Drinks are on the house! That was pathetic. you can bet that if I ever had 60 people show up for a reading, my diligent Carlo would be laying out champagne and vol au vents for all. I'm just saying--in case I ever give another reading and you all need incitement to throng.
My joints continue to trouble me. My entire right side is achy now, from the toes up. But I'm not complaining (much). I'm very concerned because my brother has texted a happy birthday to Queenie and added the news that he's still seeking a diagnosis for severe neuropathy and atrophy in the nerves that go from his spine to his legs. I'm just grateful I can still walk.
I did some grocery shopping. I found a half-price pie, marked "cherry," and carried it home in triumph for the Sparrowhawk. When cut into, it was found to be rhubarb! Woe! He likes rhubarb too, but I am irked by such incompetence. This evening we went to a poetry reading by my erstwhile friend the Poet, whom I haven't seen in ages because of covid and whatnot. Part of the whatnot is her husband's extremely exigent dietary regulations. I know it would be perfectly okay to serve him wine and raw vegetables, but somehow I just can't wrap my head around this. It seems so wrong. Anyway, she read from her latest collection, which is prose poems about her world travels--vivid little snapshots that encapsulate so many condensed insights and emotions within a few hundred words. There were 60 people in the audience! And not all of them were even a million years old! I swear to God. Also a long line of people wanting their book signed afterwards, including myself. She's going to Poland again in June to take part in a workshop wherein she'll travel around the country. I'm not jealous exactly--just kind of goggling in stupefaction at this spectacle of success. I feel like the poor cousin from Ireland. This is the kind of thing one imagines as a writer, but it doesn't really happen. However . . . after the reading, her abstemious husband announced refreshments--a couple of plastic bottles of fizzy water and a packet of storebought cookies. Dig in, folks! Drinks are on the house! That was pathetic. you can bet that if I ever had 60 people show up for a reading, my diligent Carlo would be laying out champagne and vol au vents for all. I'm just saying--in case I ever give another reading and you all need incitement to throng.
My joints continue to trouble me. My entire right side is achy now, from the toes up. But I'm not complaining (much). I'm very concerned because my brother has texted a happy birthday to Queenie and added the news that he's still seeking a diagnosis for severe neuropathy and atrophy in the nerves that go from his spine to his legs. I'm just grateful I can still walk.
