J. left yesterday afternoon for a Folger Seminar in DC, leaving me to play superparent. We'll see whether there are any broken bones by Sunday; one girl has already acquired a nice bruise on the cheekbone falling off the slide, the other has discovered that the ostensibly harmless pleasure of rolling down the hill (Samuel Johnson-wise) of our local playground carries with it the drawback of getting her hair full of those sticky little seed-pods some of the "grass" around here carries.
Trying to keep up with responsibilities over the last few days has largely eclipsed any independent thinking, much less blogging. Read Michael Palmer's The Danish Notebook (very notebook-y) and Cole Swensen's Such Rich Hour (very rich, and quite lovely). Picked up copies of Sonic Youth, NYC Ghosts & Flowers, Bill Laswell's Invisible Design, and Marc Ribot's Scelsi Morning – the latter by far the coolest title I've met in ages, and some of the song titles are no slouches either: "Pennies from Hell," "Identity I-Schmentity," "Kabukitsch" (this a faux-Japanese klezmer tune or faux-klezmer Japanese tune). But no surprise from the guy who called an album Yo! I Killed Your God!
Will at some point try to find something coherent to say about the stunning riches of the Richard Thompson boxed set, which the postman – one of my favorite people – brought round just t'other day.