and also
Among other things, I have also transformed three boxes on miscellaneous stuff into a box of recycled paper, a box of books for Logos, a pile of books to read, more books on the children's book shelf, some actual garbage, and a new trove of miscellaneous postage stamps (some of which I used to mail out a manuscript).
And this too:
A quarter to midnight, I'm getting ready for bed, and I get a call. I'm too surprised to even be scared. But all potential fears are laid to rest as I hear the peremptory voice of a woman rapidly complaining in Czech. She's not really. She's actually being very polite and thoughtful: it's just the intonation of Czech that makes it sound like that. She switched to English, and now between me and Frank we have personally spoken to people in four countries about the whereabouts of his suit roll, which made a delightful sidetrip to Venice as he went on to Prague. Frank spoke to the folks in Munich, where his plane landed: and I have spoken to people in Venice, Phoenix, and Prague.
The luggage is doing well. It's in Prague again. The only problem is that they can't deliver it: they think the address of the friend's apartment where Frank is staying is incorrect. I think they are mistaken, or at least that it is not incorrect in the way that they think it is, but I didn't think it wise or even possible to explain that the address isn't on the postal maps because the apartment is illegal . . . it's just like a granny unit, like that, only in a converted apartment house garage.
and I wrote 700 words of a new story, too, uncharacteristically one where I don't know what's going to happen except that I hope that I get these two characters together . . . it starts out really gloomy, because our guy is basically saying the same things to himself that I say to myself when I'm not busy enough.
Now I go read, perhaps to sleep.
And this too:
A quarter to midnight, I'm getting ready for bed, and I get a call. I'm too surprised to even be scared. But all potential fears are laid to rest as I hear the peremptory voice of a woman rapidly complaining in Czech. She's not really. She's actually being very polite and thoughtful: it's just the intonation of Czech that makes it sound like that. She switched to English, and now between me and Frank we have personally spoken to people in four countries about the whereabouts of his suit roll, which made a delightful sidetrip to Venice as he went on to Prague. Frank spoke to the folks in Munich, where his plane landed: and I have spoken to people in Venice, Phoenix, and Prague.
The luggage is doing well. It's in Prague again. The only problem is that they can't deliver it: they think the address of the friend's apartment where Frank is staying is incorrect. I think they are mistaken, or at least that it is not incorrect in the way that they think it is, but I didn't think it wise or even possible to explain that the address isn't on the postal maps because the apartment is illegal . . . it's just like a granny unit, like that, only in a converted apartment house garage.
and I wrote 700 words of a new story, too, uncharacteristically one where I don't know what's going to happen except that I hope that I get these two characters together . . . it starts out really gloomy, because our guy is basically saying the same things to himself that I say to myself when I'm not busy enough.
Now I go read, perhaps to sleep.