One day off from summer school which just began for the fourth of July on Wednesday. My parents due to arrive on Saturday. Summer heat and a touch of rising humidity. A full moon. That bane of the teenager, acne. Fireworks for the above-noted holiday. Life as a teenager who spends all of his non-school time with his parents.
It is all giving Charlie a bellyful of cares or rather curas. The latter is from the Latin word cura which means not 'cure' (not in classical Latin at any rate) but 'care, worry, woe, trouble, anxiety, pains.'
I was hoping to do some writing about various scintillating topics like the Facebook email foul-up or the big mess of a merger being made of certain New Jersey institutions of higher learning. But that would mean my mind and fingers would be active in a certain way and Charlie just seems to sense these.
It does makes me think, for nine months I carried this child inside of me and then for thirteen months more I nursed him, making the best eye contact every time, we've still got the buzz from a psychic-ish connection going.
Jim does the best intuiting and interpreting of Charlie's moods. I decipher (or try to) Charlie's sparsely worded, seemingly non-contextual pronouncements (I start from the premise, it all has meaning, just as every piece of a poem fits together into the proverbial well-wrought urn).
This night bridging Monday to Tuesday feels like it will be an insomnia night. So typing can wait and I am reading a text of strange and potent familiarity, a reissue of Richmond Lattimore's 1951 translation of Homer's Iliad, the first translation I ever read of the epic, and with a very fine introduction by the professor who advised my Junior Paper on food in the plays of Aristophanes in 1989.
Sing, goddess, the anger of Peleus' son Achilleus...