ritual

In the morning, before going to work, I drink my English breakfast tea, read my blogs on the Reader and listen to/watch La Blogotheque's Concerts a Emporter (this morning: Beirut, Yeasayer and Andrew Bird). It is quite nice.

I've almost finished Three Guineas, Woolf's answer to the question, "How shall we prevent war?" It is occasionally dense, but surprises you with moments of purely beautiful prose. I think I made the right choice for my honors thesis. And I am about 260 pages in to Within a Budding Grove. I think of Francine Prose (aka, the woman I'd like to become one day) whenever I read Proust, and how admirably pretentious it was of her to read the entire À la recherche du temps perdu in French.

I got to talk to Guion, fresh in from NYC, last night on Skype. Big bonus to the week. 

I should start walking now, but I just wanted to say, briefly, that I am pleased to have fallen into this daily rhythm, while set on edge at the thought that it shall soon be disrupted when I arrive in Denver and must create a new one. I am, perhaps above all else, a creature of habit. I like routines and plain food; I am boring at the heart? Or maybe only too easily satisfied?