Of the Surface of Things
By Wallace Stevens
In my room, the world is beyond my understanding;
But when I walk I see that it consists of three or four
hills and a cloud.
From my balcony, I survey the yellow air,
Reading where I have written,
"The spring is like a belle undressing."
The gold tree is blue,
The singer has pulled his cloak over his head.
The moon is in the folds of the cloak.
My mother's friends threw her a birthday party at a very nice restaurant on Friday, to which I went with her and my sister, Nicole. Many of these friends are people I've known since early childhood and all of them for decades at least, so it was lovely to see them all in one place, something I haven't done since my mother's last big birthday. My sister and I had made a collage of photos that have funny family stories connected to them, so we told some of those; my mother's friends sang a version of "I've Got You, Babe" and one of them read some Judith Viorst. I had an omelet and we all had some kind of raspberry white chocolate cake.
I came home in the afternoon to post a review of "Invasive Procedures", ran out to a couple of stores, and we all went over to my parents' for dinner with Nicole and her family. My mother brought in Italian food, we had two birthday cakes -- one for her, one for Paul whose birthday is Saturday -- and Daniel kept goading Sabrina, who gives as good as she gets, so it was hilarious but rather loud. We came home so everyone could chill for a while before we all get together again tomorrow and the kids could do some homework while the adults watched our new Blu-Ray copy of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy.