So much, so much, but I don't, because my head has too much energy for the rest of me to use. I don't know if that made sense. Here is some blather, broken up by stuff to make it seem less of a chore to slog through.
Toward the end of February, I contracted a virus. Well, a boy did first. He was the sickest of his life, at age 15, and I actually took him to the clinic on a Sunday, where we learned he didn't have the flu, just one of these things you get now and then that sticks to you. And as he was getting better after needing more serious attention than he has in over a decade, I fell ill. Well, I seem to every year at the end of winter, actually, but anyway. It took him over two weeks to be better, took me over three. But now it's been over six weeks, and I'm still not right. It's because of weak lungs, asthma, etc. I need a stretch of two or three days in warm dry sunshine, then I'll be fine.
In the meantime, so much in my head, and I've been sewing, doing puzzles, watching French and Japanese movies, listening to opera, having mini existential crises, and planning a duo of paintings in a similar (though poorly similar, and that's okay by me) style to a few early ones by Karl Schmidt-Rottluff, to put on my living room wall.
And someone recently mentioned he'd finally read a great long 19th century piece of literature, which got me thinking.
I make a general goal each year to take some time to appreciate good stuff or go back over great stuff to see or hear it all with a current perspective. But very general, not like when I was 17, or maybe 18, and my brother said I should make a list of good books I never read, and read them, and I sat in a tree in Loose Park with Emma and a bag of almond croissants and fell in love with Mr Knightley. Because I got through only about half the list after that. I mean, directly after that. It's a certainty I've covered it all by now.
Only there's so much else I haven't covered! I'm still lousy at Italian; every time I tackle it, I start reviewing French, instead. Whenever I try to read Ukridge, I find myself back at Blandings Castle. Things like this. So I am making a real list, and I'll make neat lines through it as I go along.
I imagined whistling through the parking lot of Home Depot, as I do, the Habanera aria from Carmen, and someone from the web would call me a poseur, only whatever the word is in 2014 for that, and I'd have to sing it aloud and annoyingly in order to shut them up, but that one line that goes, "Et c’est l’autre que je préfère—Il n’a rien dit mais il me plait" has this rhythm I can't quite get. And I could never match the sheer incredibleness of this, especially at 1.49 or I forget, thereabouts.
Still, that should be on the list, even though the internet, fortunately, tends to stay where it is and not follow people through parking lots.
But look, I have read Ulysses. I get why it's a thing and all, however, I didn't get any pride from it, and on the whole, I'd rather just listen to Kate Bush, only not very young Kate Bush. So the list is just for me, not anybody else, or so I can check off more boxes at a Buzzfeed page and be scored on how very, very special I am, indeed, or almost! if I just try a little bit harder.
Probably I should reach farther, though, is the original point. My comfort zone is wider than many, but not actually much or any deeper.
The conversation after the short bit of rehearsal we are shown amuses me.
So anyway. I'm making a list. Stay tuned.