My brain is feeling alternately empty and overly full. We’re going on a vacation to California this weekend, so I’m full of lists and plans and things to do. Which has made my brain seemingly empty of much else.
I had a post cooking in there about education based on an interesting thread on an editing discussion board. I have several drafts I could finish. I could go outside and take pictures of the beautiful flowers and plants growing madly all around and tell you all about them. Heck, I could take a couple shots of my cats and write the most boring post ever:
Eat. Drink. Poop. Scratch. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep. Repeat.
I’ll spare you that one.
Image via Wikipedia
Our heroine is taking her morning bath, in my ideal bathroom*:
The Gothic bathroom had filled with steam. Its sort of Gothic was really more woodland than church; the vaulting of it arched above Daily Alice’s head and interlaced like meeting branches, and everywhere carven ivy, leaves, tendrils and vines were in restless biomorphic motion. On the surface of the narrow stained-glass windows, dew formed in drops on cartoon-bright trees, and on the distant hunters and vague fields which the trees framed; and when the sun on its lazy way had lit up all twelve of these, bejewelling the fog that rose from her bath, Daily Alice lay in a pool in a medieval forest. Her great-grandfather had designed the room, but another had made the glass. His middle name was Comfort, and that’s what Daily Alice felt. She even sang.
Our heroine’s mother is cooking, experiencing something similar to what happens to me when I wash dishes:
Mother was powdered to the elbows in the process of pie-making, not a mindless task though she liked to call it that, in fact she found that at it her thoughts were often clearest, notions sharpest; she could do things when her body was busy that she could at no other time, things like assemble her worries into ranks, each rank commanded by a hope. She remembered verses sometimes cooking that she had forgotten she knew, or spoke in tongues, her husband’s or her children’s or her dead father’s or her unborn, clearly-seen grandchildren’s, three graduated girls and a lean unhappy boy.
Our hero meets our heroine for the first time:
The more he looked at her the stronger [the feeling] grew, the more she looked at him the more he felt . . . what? In a moment of silence they simply looked at each other, and understanding hummed, thundered within Smoky as he realized what had happened: not only had he fallen in love with her, and at first sight, but she at first sight had fallen in love with him, and the two circumstances had this effect: his anonymity was being cured. Not disguised, as [his friend] George Mouse had tried to do, but cured, from the inside out. That was the feeling. It was as though she stirred him with cornstarch. He had begun to thicken.