Breakfast

"I like bread and butter, I like toast and jam...". Fucking Phoebe in the under-brush. I eat a bagel, smeared with avocado. A walk, I need to go to the library, and I need supplies for the next week. Stopped at the pub, for a draft and the excellent "Tom's Mac and Cheese" (bacon and jalapenos). The former bosses were there, with the ceramic artist currently on display, and it was very cordial. Mark asked how the writing was going and I told him I was reading a lot and he rolled his eyes in envy. Driving out I saw Terry (a board member), in his future coffee shop, where he wants me to cook. Stopped and talked with him for an hour. He was thinking once a week, which I said is what it'd been thinking. Maybe starting in a couple of weeks. I can cook whatever I want. He springs for it all. There's a bat in the house, I always hate this, I go get the tennis racket. Usually I can shoo them out the back door. Cooking for Terry's cronies once a week could be cool. They're mostly well-heeled, a lot of them on expense accounts, and the tips could be good. When these people eat my cooking they're going to fall over in their chairs. Terry gets fired up. A job in which I work one day a week sounds about right. I need the world out there, a little sliver of it, to hear other people speak the language, and watch them move about, informs me. Here's how it goes. That second comma ago, though the last comma does come into play later, completely floored me. I was thinking about the whole concept of parsing time. Punctuation keeps the beat. It's raining, louder than it was before. Nothing pushes you further from the truth.