Saturday, June 23
It is summer now. The grass has started to turn brown. We have sealed ourselves
in the relative coolness of the house with the hum of box fans, decrepit
computers, an ancient laser printer. The kitchen is filthy and piled with the
wreckage of my highly improvised cooking. The entire former contents of our
bedroom closet, purged in response to the death-stench of some rodent or
reptile in the walls, spill across the couch and living room floor.
Elizabeth works fitfully on her comprehensive exams for a Masters of Art in
Educational Psychology. I have just read half of
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
The book has done unpleasant things to my head, as Hunter S. Thompson always
does. I begin by feeling that here was a man who could write, and wind up
with the sense that I have been submerged in some deeply ramified binge.
We bought other things this morning, besides the Johnny-Depp-by-way-of-Photoshop
covered Fear and Loathing. It's one of those celebrations of something
or another in Lyons - Old-Timey Dayz or something similar, a Colorado front
range tourist town equivalent to Laurel, NE's Ag Days. There are garage sales.
The United Methodist Church rummage sale gave us a perfect copy of the Kodak
EKTRALITE 10 camera my mother carried through most of my childhood.
The library yielded a plastic grocery sack full of books. Among them is a
paperback copy of The Copernican Revolution, by Thomas S. Kuhn. On the title
page, someone has written and then crossed out the first five words of
suicide: a permanent solution to
a permanent problem
:: write in the margins