Why am I having such a hard time finding rainbow sherbet? Is sherbet rare now? It is delicious and summery. It is the color of tourmaline! And it is light and cooling. Icy fruit. I don't want to look too hard. The Golden Goose has ditched their stocking of said sherbet. I feel like an actual Golden Goose, out in the bower, would really be into cooling down after a workout with some sherbet. Disappointing.
Got some color today, son. As I mentioned this morning, I did not feel well on account of my racing heart--which is not a condition of my heart, but rather this situation--so what I decided to do was walk twelve miles, and run the Boston College steps ten times. That takes the week total to fifty-two miles walked, six miles ran, 7800 steps ran. I must be strong in every to endure this and prevail. The now official mantra around these parts is total focus, no mercy, matchless art. This is a somewhat crispy me after the final climb. I look like a different person than four plus years ago. All of that weight is gone from my face.
Coming back on the T, a man from a car away began shouting hockey talk at me, on account of my garb. This was awkward. Hockey talk from twelve yards away, me sitting in my sweat. He also got like every fact wrong. People have been having these weird hockey talks with me of late. There was that fellow who wrote me that one paragraph mega-missive at four in the AM. I took the kid gloves approach there, though as someone else mentioned, here you have someone trying to lecture the actual expert. Today I elected to nod along cheerily. This guy was actually pretty interesting. He graduated high school in 1971, worked as an oil rigger, works concession at Fenway Park, and lives on a boat in the harbor. I rather liked him.
And speaking of tourmaline, is this tourmaline? Is it nighttime tourmaline? Ruby of truth? Night ruby. Night human ruby. Night ruby of human heart, human truth, humanness. It's from "The Space of the Moment."
“The fisher’s back, Ben, want to see?” He grabbed his pad, and we’d hurry down the hallway. “Daddy’s loud again,” he observed each time, as though the stentorian Sturm und Drang of my husband’s snoring was reserved for these select nights, and we sat in the window, the fisher never having departed back into the darkness and its routine before we got there, the ballet of espy, leap, seize, and kill.
“Was it an accident with uncle Ned?” he asked, one of those initial times after, while we watched the fisher limp. But it would still reach up into the bird bath for the bone with some meat on it that we had left there a few days back. The foxes and the raccoons never thought their might be goodies above, but the fisher always did.
“It wasn’t on purpose,” I told him. “There’s a difference.”
I read this book by a child psychologist once, and she said that when you give your children a piece of information that can change what they think they know, how they view their world, and the world at large, you don’t touch them just then. You have to give them what she called the space of the moment. Otherwise you can chase away what is sinking in. “Never take away the space of the moment,” she wrote. She must have said it a half dozen times.
Lay them out tomorrow, dude.