After I finished May Sarton, I picked up Nightwood. I made a great library haul at my beloved main branch of the Arapahoe County library system two weeks ago after my pretty birdful walk. I've been wrapping and writing cards and finishing stockings and not setting aside a lot of time to read, and even watching "Battlestar Galactica" before sleep instead of reading. What that means is that I don't like Nightwood much, or rather that its first dozen pages have failed to engage me.
Today is a hanging-around-in-our-jammies day, and I will give Djuna Barnes another push or give up for the next book in the stack. Which I should have done several days ago.
Okay, it is not perfect: perfect would be in the den, where his parents sit next to instead of near each other. But close. Blake has had a lot of headpetting, and singing into the hand, and pinking the edges of Yule cards, and helping me bead stockings, plus, each of us had toast for lunch. (Blake is Alex from A Clockwork Orange: he has eggiwegs and lomticks of toast.)
I finished the last cards just before the mail came and then sat with my laptop, watching "Amadeus" with headphones and stitching stockings. Blake chewed on his own string of beads and then tucked for a nap. Unusually, he tucked to his right shoulder. I whispered to RDC to look, and he asked if the buddy was turned around. So it's not just me who knows that Blake usually tucks to his left. This is something every birdie tailor needs to know about so accommodation can be made in the appropriate shoulder's plumage.
The other day I popped into African Grey to look for a toy for Blake's stocking. I left my shopping bag from another store on the counter because the shop is quite crowded, and looked for toys and spoke with the owner about a cockatiel she had for sale who was surrendered (for sale?!) by her person because when she laid eggs, her poop smelled funny. I really hate people sometimes. She was a pretty little pearl, 11 years old, named Caraway. I took to her immediately and wondered if Blake would, but no. When the owner and I returned to the counter, the guard cockatoo (an umbrella named Rags, very promiscuous, had inserted itself into my arms earlier) was way up on its perch laughing and nibbling something it held in one paw. Karen pointed out that the package of candy canes had been skidded out of my shopping bag and ripped open, and the crook of one cane had been broken off. There it was in the happy cockatoo's claw. Bad bird.
Perhaps another element to make Blake's day really perfect would be avian companionship, especially of the female persuasion, but no. RDC gave him a pita chip, his new absolute favorite munchie, and that will have to do.