~blinks... blinks?~
Apr. 23rd, 2009 02:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
home_and_awaySo.
While puttering through the house, I've been listening to Sound & Spirit, the Trickster episode. On the bed, The Faery Reel lies open. This is where my head has been for the past three days--a novel I might blow through in twelve hours, but short stories must be savoured. Must be let to roll round in the skull while I do other things.
In this case, the "other things" are clearing my son's breakfast plate and making myself a bit of a snack. Stomach yowls; head aches; vague dizziness sets in. These are the body's increasingly impolite reminders that it would like a bit of lift in its blood glucose levels. Leftover shepherd's pie, I think, possibly a bit of cheese dip.
So I wander into the kitchen, set down used dishes, close gaping cupboard doors. Bring down a small bowl. All the while thinking about little oakthings and their steady diet of milk left by doorsteps in little bowls. About cats drinking from the little bowls and hanging round to eat the rodents and maybe spare the house from plague. Except we have chipmunks living "downstairs" here, not rats, and while locally they may carry rabies, isn't plague fairly rare in the southeast? Either way, I like our chipmunks more than I like the stray cats. So no milk in small bowls for you Kindly lot, so sorry.
Except by this time, my hands have opened the fridge, pulled out the milk and filled the bowl. I "wake up" while putting the milk back on its shelf.
And now, your vaguely superstitious narrator isn't sure whether to put the bowl out anyhow (maybe chipmunks would thrive on acidophilous milk?) or pour it on the roots of the tree out back, but she's pretty well convinced that drinking it would be disrespectful and bad luck...
Gods, I've got to eat...
While puttering through the house, I've been listening to Sound & Spirit, the Trickster episode. On the bed, The Faery Reel lies open. This is where my head has been for the past three days--a novel I might blow through in twelve hours, but short stories must be savoured. Must be let to roll round in the skull while I do other things.
In this case, the "other things" are clearing my son's breakfast plate and making myself a bit of a snack. Stomach yowls; head aches; vague dizziness sets in. These are the body's increasingly impolite reminders that it would like a bit of lift in its blood glucose levels. Leftover shepherd's pie, I think, possibly a bit of cheese dip.
So I wander into the kitchen, set down used dishes, close gaping cupboard doors. Bring down a small bowl. All the while thinking about little oakthings and their steady diet of milk left by doorsteps in little bowls. About cats drinking from the little bowls and hanging round to eat the rodents and maybe spare the house from plague. Except we have chipmunks living "downstairs" here, not rats, and while locally they may carry rabies, isn't plague fairly rare in the southeast? Either way, I like our chipmunks more than I like the stray cats. So no milk in small bowls for you Kindly lot, so sorry.
Except by this time, my hands have opened the fridge, pulled out the milk and filled the bowl. I "wake up" while putting the milk back on its shelf.
And now, your vaguely superstitious narrator isn't sure whether to put the bowl out anyhow (maybe chipmunks would thrive on acidophilous milk?) or pour it on the roots of the tree out back, but she's pretty well convinced that drinking it would be disrespectful and bad luck...
Gods, I've got to eat...
