A Stew of Cloves

I have never had a favorite color, although I like certain colors for certain things (yellow kitchens, blue houses, red game pieces, green shirts) and certain hues next to other hues. I wonder whether visual artists generally are less likely to have favorite colors. (I include photographers in this.) It seems to me we tend instead to have design principles.

I have discovered sugar ants in Val's office. I was happily killing a dozen whenever I needed a break, until I realized Val was not aware of the infestation. Immediately, Serious Measures were undertaken, although they continue to be supplemented by my more individually targeted execution style. I am probably the most thorough and inefficient exterminator in history.

Last night, I took a long bath full of various potions, as Val's first order of duty upon moving was to stock the guest room and guest bath with luxurious objects in order to lure, for instance, me. The bed is much better than my bed at home. There is a beautiful desk full of adorable stationary. (If anybody wants a letter, send me your address. I will probably write something inane, but it will be on pretty paper.) Point being: I took a bath full of exotic spices in the desert. That is some indulgence.*

Christopher and I have decided that celebrities would be more likely to read fan mail if it was from other celebrities, so we have decided to send mail to celebrities in care of other celebrities. "Dear Macy Gray, could you please get this to David Bowie." "Paul McCartney, if you run into Serena Williams." Surely the celebrities would make every effort. It's the mail. It's their duty.

Watched Orlando**; a hit and miss script, but visually inventive, and interesting by virtue of dealing with ideas that are not often dealt with in film. I wish it had been a little less in love with itself and a little more focused, but it's worth watching for the spectacle and the sense of humor.

The calendar next to the stove has a photo of blue-footed boobies looking ridiculous, which always reminds me of my mom. (Galapagos is her favorite Vonnegut, and the boobies are why.)

* Yes; baths do use less water than showers, but it is still like being in a hot tub in the snow.
** 1994. Directed by Sally Potter, based on Virginia Woolf, starring Tilda Swinton and featuring Billy Zane.

I genuinely advocate for a return to aggressive use of DDT

Woke up this morning and ran a somewhat respectable 12.5 minute mile. (Somewhat respectable because of the altitude and because I'm a mildly asthmatic Dance Dance player rather than a runner. Which means among other things I go for wind sprints.) This was my first time running barefoot, and I gotta say I really prefer it (presuming a safe surface).

Christopher and I walked through the mountains and saw many wonderful things, a few of which I have photographed but none of which are yet uploaded. Hardest to photograph but most remarkable were the lights in the sky - near 11am, for maybe a minute and a half, there were six clouds striped in rainbow colors, as though Halloween smoke bombs had been set off in the sky. It did not seem caused by nature at all, although it was, and it was like nothing either of us had ever seen. On the way back to the car, we received confirmation that dogs are superior to breadcrumbs; Koko, a small and not terribly rugged pomeranian, had marked every juncture of the path and had no trouble following his own smell to guide us.

Christopher and my new scheme (we scheme on these walks, and Val is working and therefore not around to stop us) is to move beyond ninjas, gypsies, zombies, vampires, and pirates and to begin to self-identify as bandits. Possibly we will wear bandit masks, like El Zorro. Possibly we will sometimes claim to be brigands rather than bandits. Either way we intend to be skulduggerous. In other words consider this notice that bandits are now on trend.

I spent a pleasant few hours weeding the yard while eating blackberries and galia melon (which I correctly surmised was a cross of honeydew and cantaloupe, just from the smell), and Val and I headed to the river to watch the sunset.

There are basically no mosquitos in New Mexico. Christopher lived here more than seven years, is outdoors constantly, and saw a group of them once. In four months here, Sharon has seen (and killed) two that looked lost. A swarm showed up today and bit me 11 times in a few minutes, some through my clothes. I have singlehandedly sustained the entire mosquito population of New Mexico.

Since I don't have my special cream with me (figuring there were not mosquitos in New Mexico, a major selling point), Val has dosed me with steroids and Benadryl, such that I am now both covered with welts and slightly loopy. The best description of how I feel is "glrrrrrrrrrr." (Note to self: always bring special cream. You have been bitten by mosquitos in the dead of winter with three feet of snow on the ground. You are Romie, and they will find you.)

I shall have a lie down soon, but I must stay focused for now so that I may partake of tea and cookies.