Exercises in Style

Today I called my mom, then went to the gym.  When I returned, I made an appointment for my car to have an oil change.  I am now doing copious amounts of laundry.  None of this is apropos to anything I usually talk about on this blog.  Luckily school starts the week after next which should provide plenty of fodder for blogging.  The first hints of nerves have hit.  Also luckily, there is an abundance of shipyard pumpkinhead in my fridge.  Coincidence?  I think not.

A La Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

It had not escaped my attention that my living companion had neglected, for some time now, domestic duties which certainly required due and diligent attendance.  The laundry had piled up, telephone messages accumulated, and vehicles required certain regular maintenance.  She must have gotten in a mood this particular afternoon as once she began to take care of these things, she continued until they were well and truly attended to.  Of course, the usual personal habits of my living companion are not generally fodder for my notes, but in the lack of any cases this week these habits make an appearance due to a gross under-abundance of things to speak about.  I am hoping that should change in the coming weeks, what with new stimulation vis-à-vis the scholarly inclination to speak.  For the moment, she seems to be dousing any dullness in the comforting depths of foaming beauty that is beer.

A La James Joyce

Riverun past phone call past mother past gym.  Returning to the sound of a necessary

L. Moholy-Nagy's graphic organizer of Finnegan's Wake... yea... not even people who claim to understand this book understand this book

beep requiring attention in the vehicular department.  Thumping suds and clean sheet pave the way towards an afternoon of adjustment, broaching topics previously abandoned.  Pools of disinterest.  Chug Chug Chug down the way towards more open pastures.  Butterflies flutter lightly.  Rivers of beer slide slippingly, trippingly, dippingly.  There are no coincidences.

A La Kurt Vonnegut

A mundane phone call followed by the mundane motions of exercise ensued followed by the even more mundane task of laundry.  She didn’t like doing laundry, but she liked having clean sheets.  None of this is really very interesting.  To her, it was simply the facts of living as she did.  She hoped life would be more interesting in the following weeks, but for the meantime had a cold beer.  She liked beer.

A La J.R.R. Tolkein

 Danielle daughter of Jennifer daughter of Sulamith stood speaking fervently to her matriarchal ancestor, planning the upcoming excursion to the land of York.  She set down her telephone, bidding the messenger farewell as she did so.  She then proceeded to step outside her door for her semi-daily constitutional (humans are well known for such tendencies, though those from her homeland of York were perhaps best renown for it).  When the constitutional had met its end, she returned home through the summer air.  The pavement was gray as a goosehawk’s back and the leaves at their greenest.  The temperature was moderate, and the week’s weather patterns had proven reliable for such things.  As she returned to her abode, she set about the mundane tasks which demanded her attention and hardly need mentioning here.  They are the same sort which her ancestors performed, and their ancestors before them, and which perhaps would have caught the attention of a scholar or wizard only in their quirky deviations from the mundane.  With luck, the coming weeks would provide activity which would merit mentioning (of course, provided the weather held).  These activities provide a certain level of anxiety for Danielle daughter of Jennifer daughter of Sulamith, but she quelled the feeling with the liberal application of fine ales.

A La Eugene Ionesco

everyone, however, understand Rhinoceros.

What started as a normal day devolves into chaos as a rhinoceros rips through the scene.  Danielle enters chewing on several blades of grass.