things move around

Awakened at six thiry by whoops and mumblings, increasing suddenly in volume as they enter our bedchamber, then quelled briskly by Kate and hustled out to the relatively distant living room. Snooze, inhaling smell of slept-on-pillow. Sounds of playing in background - an unending impromptu narrative of rhinos, baby rhinos, babble, whynot. Woken by a piercing shriek from the boy at six forty-five, subside, reawoken by the same sound, like that of a mockingbird, as well as the sprung of a small person clambering into my bed and the chittery yammering of a small girl.

Aquarium; axlotls, unnamed baby beluga (and mother and grandmother), swishing to the surface, spruffing air. During an impromptu training session, the belugas exhibiting their lollopy, good-natured ungainliness - which is not to impugn the dolphins with their precision. L arches his neck to gaze at the fluoro-lights rather than veg with the surfperch (though the moon jellies, renamed jellypi, and the huge dogfish are a hit).

Later, a rare daytime bath: I read ‘Vineland’ upon the toilet as E narrates the adventures of her toy rubber alligator: “he spinned around with his tail, he was grunting with joy”! Kate says they saw three wedding celebrations in Stanley Park the other day; the brides fully decked out receiving no comment from E, until to one side of the third party, whose bride was wearing a beautiful gown, a work of love, she noticed a flock of geese. Geese! Geese, mummy look at the geese! Long live this ungirlishness.

Then in the evening we go to Kate’s parents’ house for celebratory paella, cake, wine etc. I’m given a boning knife (hand-made, could be used for throwing at usurpers), a battery charger (?) and a book: the uncorrected proof copy of the Collected Letters of D.H. Lawrence, Volume II. His novels and poetry I absolutely loathe, but what I’ve read of his criticism is good and the letters are good. Later I’m forced to order vol I 2nd-hand on Amazon, in order to render the index fully functional.

The French for “diving” is “plongeon”.

Just say it over and over in your best French accent.

It does sound a bit like being underwater, doesn’t it?

Yesterday I came home to a dragonfly, which had entered via the balcony and become disoriented. It had based itself in a windowless corner - or rather openingless, since the whole apartment is window - and periodically sallied out, zanting about the room in a panic, my daughter saying “he sure can fly” and “he sure can escape!” It was the size of a small hummingbird, bright yellow- and green-banded, with the familiar iridescence of the wings. I had never seen a dragonfly so close before; it had a corporality, a bodily strength which in an insect was exciting. Eventually I tried to waft it in the right direction with newspaper and fly-swat, but it was steady and unmoved; then I became over-enthusiastic and dealt it a glancing blow, which took the zip out of the poor creature so that it crawled meekly onto the swat and I shook it free out of the window to an uncertain fate, while I felt glum and oafish.

Later I learned from Wikipedia that “Japanese children catch large dragonflies as a game, using a hair with a small pebble tied to each end, which they throw into the air. The dragonfly mistakes the pebbles for prey, gets tangled in the hair, and is dragged to the ground by the weight.” Fine in theory, I suppose.

Tomorrow is Pride Parade - I’m going to take E out (it’s L’s naptime) and applaud dancers, eat gyoza, ogle buff homos, jeer politicians, and hurl excreta at phony corporates.

Today I read Dahl’s “Fantastic Mr Fox” to E, which she loved. Back to crappy Stuart Little tomorrow: “he’s a mouse” (who likes to use lots of stupid figures of speech and dull episodic plodding)…