Filling 3 done.
There is never enough spinach when it is desired and always more when unwanted.
Filling 2 is done.
Cast iron skillets are grand. If they ever look like shit, that means it is time for a good hard clean and season.
[i was going to type something completely different, but i started staring into the void and forgot everything.]
Filling 1 done.
It dawned on me I didn't get any fresh parsley for chimichurri. I do have a small pre-cut bottle of parsley, but it doesn't taste the same as fresh.
...
Oh well, i'll just make a small chimichurri and if I get real desprete for fresh parsley chimichurri, i'll just grab some next time i head to grocery.
[i need a beer and some music.]
Original plan was to make lasagna, but I decided to do it another day. Instead a big batch of empanadas will be made. Making the fillings tonight, so I can make the dough and roll tomorrow. Could make the dough tonight as well, but I never liked the batches where I made the dough night before. If there is any dessert this year, it'll be banana pudding.
Things I did not send in the work group chat responding to a message from my boss stating i need to address a particular issue with other managers and team members:
- no shit.
- no. I'll address something when I feel I need to address it.
- if I have to address this all the time, it means I work with incompetent people. if I work with incompetent people, I need to quit. when would you like my notice?
- sentences throwing the individual responsible, whom either didn't listen or forgot the instruction, under the buss.
- a vomit emoji
- a random gaping asshole picture from the internet.
what I did send:
- it was addressed, but not followed up on.
Sometimes I think about taking a picture of the sky during the morning walk as the sun rises. There tend to be some real pretty colors and interesting cloud formations when I happen to look up. There are too many man made objects obstructing, so picture attempts are rare.
It is August. September will arrive soon.
October, November, and December will fly.
Then it will be January with a miserable list of hopes and objectives.
[.....]
Didn't plan on cutting the hair today, but couldn't stand it any longer. Halved the pony tail and buzzed the sides. There is some regret with trimming the beard as I had come accustomed to stroking it during contemplation. Look less unkempt with the cut. Still look tired.
. Suddenly the park lights came on, although there was a second of total darkness, as if someone had tossed a black blanket over parts of Hamburg. The gentleman sighed, he must have been about seventy, and then he said: "A mysterious legacy, don't you think?" "You're right, I do," said Archimboldi as he got up and took his leave of the descendant of Fürst Pückler. Soon afterward he left the park and the next morning he was on his way to Mexico.
-
"And that's it, friends. I've done it all, I've lived it all. If I had the strength, I'd cry. I bid you all goodbye, Arturo Belano."
[From 2666 by Roberto Bõlano. Translated by Natasha Wimmer.]
Borges & i, by jorge luis borges, 1962
the other one, the one called Borges, is the one things happen to. i walk through the streets of Buenos Aires & stop for a moment, perhaps mechanically now, to look at the arch of an entrance hall & the grillwork on the gate; i know of Borges from the mail & see his name on a list of professors or in a biographical dictionary. i like hourglasses, maps, eighteenth-century typography, the taste of coffee & the prose of Stevenson; he shares these preferences, but in a vain way that turns them into the attributes of an actor. it would be an exaggeration to say that ours is a hostile relationship; i live, let myself go on living, so that Borges may contrive his literature, & this literature justifies me. it is no effort for me to confess that he has achieved some valid pages, but those pages cannot save me, perhaps because what is good belongs to no one, not even to him, but rather to the language & to tradition. besides, i am destined to perish, definitively, & only some instant of myself can survive in him. little by little, i am giving over everything to him, though i am quite aware of his perverse custom of falsifying & magnifying things. Spinoza knew that all things long to persist in their being; the stone eternally wants to be a stone & the tiger a tiger. i shall remain in Borges, not in myself (if it is true that i am someone), but i recognize myself less in his books than in many others or in the laborious strumming of a guitar. years ago i tried to free myself from him & went from the mythologies of the suburbs to the games with time & infinity, but those games belong to Borges now & i shall have to imagine other things. thus my life is a flight & i lose everything & everything belongs to oblivion, or to him
i do not know which of us has written this page
Spent my weekend playing Yakuza 0. I liked it, but hit a wall with the final boss. Boss is pretty well rounded and needs to be faced in a similar manner. I pretty much relied on the beast style and have no real feel for the other two styles, which put me at a disadvantage. Decided to move onto Kawami until ready to return to 0.
[Eventually I will return to literature, but lately my choices haven't been the best.]
Sometimes, I say to myself "I could've been a lawyer" when I ponder my (perceived) sad state of life. Then I interact with a lawyer that is a rude smart ass and I feel glad I didn't become a lawyer.
It's 10pm and I still haven't finished my morning iced coffee. Luckily it is still cold and I can now have it with a slice of sock-it-to-me cake.
A queued post.
Smell of freshly made moka coffee fills the apartment. Waiting for it to cool down some before making ice coffee out of it. Today is/was a holiday I got to work through. Once I arrive home I'm going to indulge in spirit and get the giggles while listening to music or some other activity. I might just fall asleep when I get home, if honest.
[A playlist for the day. Bummed that the album art mosaic doesn't really fit. All because I really wanted to put AFI on the list for some odd reason.
Maybe it has to do with nostalgia or not having listened to something in a very long while and recalling like for something.]
I have been thinking about living like the lilies that blow in the fields.
They rise and fall in the wedge of the wind, and have no shelter from the tongues of the cattle,
and have no closets or cupboards, and have no legs. Still I would like to be as wonderful
as that old idea But if I were a lily I think I would wait all day for the green face
of the hummingbird to touch me. What I mean is, could I forget myself
even in those feathery fields? When van Gough preached to the poor of course he wanted to save someone—
most of all himself. He wasn't a lily, and wandering through the bright fields only gave him more ideas
it would take his life to solve. I think I will always be lonely in this world, where the cattle graze like a black and white river—
where the ravishing lilies melt, without protest, on their tongues— where the hummingbird, whenever there is a fuss, just rises and floats away.
["Lilies" by Mary Oliver from House of Light]
