Week in Seven Words #151
When the book I've worked on makes its way into the world I feel a nervous happiness.
Short clips of improv comedy are like shots of an energy drink.
The blink of the cursor measures time.
She tries to give me 'supercalifragalisticexpialidocious' as a mathematical solution. I am unmoved.
Step 1: Recognizing a problem. Step 3: Doing something about it. Step 2: Inertia.
At the front of the line there's usually someone whose library card is lost among a hundred compartments in a purse or whose money is floating around in a bottomless coat pocket.
The water is beaten down by the wind.
Week in Seven Words #152
He isn't toilet-trained but he's started to seek out privacy when nature calls. He tries to find a quiet spot in the house where he can stand or sit in his diaper, and if you approach him, he warns you off with a plaintive "No, no..." until he's done.
I see the sculpture in the wan cloudy light of a winter afternoon, so I don't realize at first that it has color sliding through it - a pale lavender flowing like liquid through its metal veins.
The view from the window is one gray smear, like a Monet painting of London.
I like historical tours of downtown where you learn that criminals were hanged and traitors shot in the peaceful square where people now eat their lunches by the fountain and text each other.
His expectation of instantaneous results have given way to pragmatism; there's so much more work to do, so much farther to go.
I had a feeling she'd stop being angry with me, because she'd want to know how my date went.
He's been asked to sort his toys neatly into drawers. But there are so many of them, and he'd rather be playing than organizing his room. So he labels one drawer the 'everything drawer' and piles as much stuff as possible into it. Unfortunately it doesn't pass inspection.