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baths and Barthes
Thursday, 19 January 2006 09:04 amOne of the best things about the relaxing of water restrictions - apart from a garden that's actually looking vaguely green - is the birds. I've just put the sprinkler on the front bit, and spent ten minutes watching three white-eyes, a thrush and a sunbird having a whale of a time diving (or running, in the case of the thrush) repeatedly through it, wittering with excitement. Then they take baths in the puddles. I think humanity made a major error somewhere in this whole civilisation business, when our definition of pleasure involves either complex ingredients and major alcohol-producing chemistry, the major death of trees to put little black words on paper, or the entire Hollywood film industry. Even bathing, which I admit is an important pleasure for me, requires hot water and preferably lots of scented additives. See Orang-utans, civilisation, for the use of.
Currently my definition of pleasure involves a day in which my head does not hurt. The last three have been something of a washout, work-wise; if I don't have a headache when I start reading Barthes, I certainly do when I stop. This may have something to do with the weather, which continues hot, but my suspicions are otherwise. Dammit. Matters were not helped yesterday by an involuntary early wake-up: about five ADT operatives (the local security company, who do patrols) chose to park their cars in the corner of the road near our house, and have a loud, Afrikaans argument (including frequent repetitions of the word "poes!", dear me, what can they mean?), starting at 6am and continuing for just over half an hour. Three metres from my bed. In an ideal universe the wall of my bedroom would not also be the wall of the property, or if it was, would be adjacent only to vast tracts of wilderness inhabited only by birds and animals. Quiet birds and animals. Also, while I am generally in favour of the obvious activities of our Boys In Blue And Orange, I would definitely settle for a silent crime-deterrant presence. Anyway, I got up, seething, at 6.30, and went for a brisk walk around Rondebosch Common, which was surprisingly pleasant. Not only everymoment gets to wun! And it says hopeful things for the human race as a species that there is no jogger so out of breath that he or she won't say "Good morning" in passing. Of course, the fact that it was cool and windy and I was striding around with an enormous, silly grin on my face, may have had something to do with that.
In other news, I recommend to your attention![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wytchfynder's current exercise in imaginary housemates. They are quirky, compelling and beautifully written, enough that they're worth the side-effect, i.e. causing me to search my conscience regarding the actual year I spent sharing a house with him. I don't remember committing any of those solecisms, but my memory is notoriously erratic.
Currently my definition of pleasure involves a day in which my head does not hurt. The last three have been something of a washout, work-wise; if I don't have a headache when I start reading Barthes, I certainly do when I stop. This may have something to do with the weather, which continues hot, but my suspicions are otherwise. Dammit. Matters were not helped yesterday by an involuntary early wake-up: about five ADT operatives (the local security company, who do patrols) chose to park their cars in the corner of the road near our house, and have a loud, Afrikaans argument (including frequent repetitions of the word "poes!", dear me, what can they mean?), starting at 6am and continuing for just over half an hour. Three metres from my bed. In an ideal universe the wall of my bedroom would not also be the wall of the property, or if it was, would be adjacent only to vast tracts of wilderness inhabited only by birds and animals. Quiet birds and animals. Also, while I am generally in favour of the obvious activities of our Boys In Blue And Orange, I would definitely settle for a silent crime-deterrant presence. Anyway, I got up, seething, at 6.30, and went for a brisk walk around Rondebosch Common, which was surprisingly pleasant. Not only everymoment gets to wun! And it says hopeful things for the human race as a species that there is no jogger so out of breath that he or she won't say "Good morning" in passing. Of course, the fact that it was cool and windy and I was striding around with an enormous, silly grin on my face, may have had something to do with that.
In other news, I recommend to your attention
wytchfynder's current exercise in imaginary housemates. They are quirky, compelling and beautifully written, enough that they're worth the side-effect, i.e. causing me to search my conscience regarding the actual year I spent sharing a house with him. I don't remember committing any of those solecisms, but my memory is notoriously erratic.
