Sunday, up around 7, cereal, coffee, reading the NYT. C can't bend over anymore so I had to rub lotion all over her legs. Ernie jumped up on the kitchen table and was rewarded with several short but good blasts from the water bottle. The little girls next door are camping out in the back yard and giggling away. The sun is out. Yesterday we went for a long, looping walk in the neighbourhood, looking at some not-yet-open open houses, sitting in the park, window shopping and then over to the Screening Room to catch the matinee of Moon. What a great little movie. No vampires or gunfights or slow-motion of any kind. Just a story about a lone astronaut assigned an energy-collection station on the moon. It's there until the 10th. Afterwards we went out for supper and then walked home in the dusk.
People are always telling me that my work is too dark. So I've put up this sunnier story, but even it has a shadow, as its original publisher – a fine Atlantic Canadian literary magazine called the Gaspereau Review – is no longer in business. ---------------- It was a simple enough thing and that thing was simply this: Edmund Kelley was a gentleman. Of course his mom called him her 'little gentleman', as in 'Oh Edmund, you are my perfect little gentleman,' which did seem to hold to a certain logic that these type of things often follow, considering her affection for him and the fact that he was, after all, only ten years old. Still, Edmund himself was not particularly fond of the diminutive aspect of that title. Gentleman was enough; gentleman summed up the whole thing rather nicely, thank you. He was definitely a more refined version of your average child. He lived in a state of perpetual Sunday m
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