My home is a colorful cocoon, one I love dearly. Masses of books are piled randomly in just about any space large enough to hold a stack. For example, the stack in the corner includes tomes on etiquette, Sufism, humor and social commentary, not to mention various speculative fiction, food writing and the occasional mystery. Just as time can restore virginity to some people, age has gifted me with forgetfulness, which makes old books new again.
I’ve been confined to barracks since I sprained my ankle. Sounds like an ideal vacation, doesn’t it? I’m chewing through my damaged leg to get out. Don’t get me wrong, the DVD we watched yesterday (the 1965 version of “Ten Little Indians”) was great. There’s another red Netflix envelope waiting like a grab bag. Whatever it is will either be something I want to see or something I ought to see. And I have all this lovely time to contemplate, to work on anything I want. But…
Somehow my ankle is connected to my brain. They both stopped working at the same time. Forget writing the Great American Movie Treatment. I can’t seem to write a joke, or even a clever tweet.
On the plus side, I finished the Saturday New York Times crossword puzzle, the most difficult of the week. Don’t tell anyone that I had to google “Ancient city on the Vire”, though. That’s cheating.
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