Grab-bag update.

The bruise on my left eyelid is a tremendously vivid shade of purple right now. I keep marveling at it whenever I take a moment at the mirror. There's still a little aching, especially on my nose and if I press against the bruised eyelid, but overall, my face is healing pretty well.

Today is the second time I've been out biking and found a dollar bill on Broadway. Only one dollar, and still - there's a certain level of trash and refuse you get in a city. Especially one like New York.

I've begun reading The Dresden Files, and they're doing a solid job of taking me out of my head, which is most of what I wanted to get out of them. The problem is that the last book I was reading - which I'm still working through - is a Penelope Fitzgerald novel, Innocence. She writes books where not a lot happens, and it's all described with exquisite tenderness, care, and beauty. It's making for some deeply entertaining whiplash.

I can't help but look at the words on the page and wonder how jaw-droppingly beautiful those images and moments could be. A meditation on isolation in shared metropolitan spaces or the dangers of obsession. The self-assured dignity of the proud beggar.

Such is the curse of having very high standards. But it's a pleasant curse, as these things go.