Come to the pump room.
Is this a command performance? I asked Mariann. She just faxed me the directions.
This morning I felt rested. I must buy white tape to shut out the light coming in over the edges of my blackout shade. I made some phone calls. The crew arrived from Kenosha.
I lectured them on communication. None of them wrote the stiff, imprecise logos of the attempted cable promotional. It had been an afterthought, and I turned it into a forgotten thought. But we tampered a bit with the intended message to teenagers and made it plausible, I think.
We had a lively conversation, though I dominated. Bigmouth. The bells just rang; musical, cozy. This north light is soothing. It’s better for the plants, but better for me to be facing the North Pole. I don’t know, really, the direction makes such a large difference. I had no idea. How does one turn? Everyone has a tendency—in one direction or another—on a regular basis. The door you reach, on your right or on your left. You tilt a certain way. Reach for a particular pocket to hold keys; once grasped, left hand, right hand, turn lock to right or left. I haven’t this much about handedness or directional inclination, but it’s a strong force. BELLS again. Sweet, melodious, humming, sort of.
Spoke to Arney. Will rendezvous for brunch Saturday, 12:30. Fan mail: set out 24 photos, six to one address. I’m keeping a list, geographical and general. I won’t keep it up. Bob Swan on the phone, where are you? I’m in 2202. I’m here. Come on up.
We talked about his preacher family. Three preachers. One is tolerable, with a Gone With The Wind name. Bob said that wrestling is tangled up violence and sex. His uncle was tongue-tied, livid. The notion damned his innocent pastime. Don’t bring around the sunlight to shine on my parade.
Is the convocation as a ruse; to get us together for the happy announcement that we’re here to stay another day or so?
Wheeling my bike, I found Paty, Suzanne, and Bob twittering on the curb. Wished I had a camera. Talk of gurus, spirituality, fake, misguided, and actual. Convocations be damned. The herders are confused, no doubt in my mind. As long as I am not, that’s O.K. with me. To Marshall Fields and Company.
I looked at the unbleached blankets and sheets from France. The luscious blanket was $350, down to $225 several weeks ago, and today at $180. I was right. We’ll wait. But I bought at Filene’s Basement: underwear, gray; two silk suede shirts. . . still no black in the right size, a truly EXTRA large. The Chinese see smaller—everything—including human beings. They don’t bother to measure or know that they are making the garments for the west. And no one tells them. HMMM? Three bananas were $1. I ate all three, though I didn’t mean to. . . at first. Bought winter laced snow-rain boots. Vote of confidence? Socks. The sock fetish holds on to me. I’m dressed now for DON QUICHOTTE. Let’s see if it’s comparable to all the other versions I’ve seen.
It was pleasant. The scenery is pretty and evocative. The singing was good.
The meeting was satisfying. The bosses wanted to keep us friendly; asked for our complaints, laughed with us, commiserated. We lodged a loud protest against the firing of Carolyn.