I was thinking about the Harvey Weinstein scandal (we should soon be thinking about something else, but this 15 minutes, it’s Weinstein). And realizing that as he’s off there in Europe or wherever he’s hiding for “therapy” and making all his weepy-eyed acts of contrition, he’s really just sitting there thinking, “Those disloyal bitches betrayed me.”
That’s the difference between a psychopath and the rest of us. That’s the guy who can’t ever learn that real relationships go two ways, and that other people exist as something more than props or discards on your way to power.
I have this book from the library that I’m absolutely terrified to read.
Not because it’s filled with bad stuff. But because it’s so beautiful. It’s a coffee table art book, just published, and I know I’m the first patron to get my grubby hands on it because I requested the purchase; I tell you, I love this library.
Of course grubby hands might be the problem; I wash them but I don’t have those white museum gloves. Spills might be the problem. Flying dog hair. Setting down a wet glass. Knocking the book off the table and bending it. Merely cracking its spine feels sinful.
So I move it carefully around and barely wedge it open.
I’ll get over it. The book will get over it. But I sometimes wonder if anyone in the future will ever feel the reverence many of us feel for printed books.
I just invited Ava up onto the couch. Ava, who is ever-eager to do anything I wish and always obeys with joy on the first command, has to be invited two or more times when it comes to the couch — especially if I have food. This evening, four times.
She’s like, “Can this really be true? Can this wondrous thing actually happen to me? Dare I believe I’m being called into the very heavens of the human realm? No. No, I must wait to be certain!”
And tonight she’s hoping for a piece of my warm, buttered pumpkin-maple bread. So she’s finally up on the couch, standing rigid, desperately, tremblingly not looking at me because that wouldn’t be polite in Ms Emily Pug’s Etiquette Book. But one corner of her eye is fixed on that plate of bread like a snake whose eyes are bored into its doomed prey.
I got an idea for the RebelFire story this afternoon. It was sparked by something completely unexpected — and I’m not ready to go into detail, particularly because this might not be The One. Or because if it is The One, then you don’t want to know, right?
But it’s funny how you can beat your brains out to get not much of nothin’. Then some creative notion comes at you sideways and flutters into your ear.