Posted on 04/11/2020 7:01:55 PM PDT by nickcarraway
The last thing I want, emerging on the other side of social distancing, is to feel I could have done more with my time. Plus my show has 11 seasons
My first week in self-isolation was a flurry of enterprise and initiative. I dont mean to boast, but its astonishing how much I managed to get done.
My biggest achievement? I watched almost half a season of the hit Australian competitive-cooking, reality-TV show My Kitchen Rules, a dozen 60-minute episodes, devoured as ravenously as a vegemite buffet. Of course, this demanded commitment and intractable resolve, and there were more than a few evenings when, howling at the screen in agony as Manu Feildel lambasted another auspicious dish for being served without adequate sauce, I seriously considered abandoning the endeavour.
But this is an extraordinary moment, and the last thing I want, emerging on the other side of social distancing, is to feel I could have done more with my time. And My Kitchen Rules has 11 seasons.
An unexpected consequence of the coronavirus pandemic is that we have suddenly been endowed with a colossal surplus of time. More daunting than the time itself seems the continuing prospect of it the huge expanse of unused time still to come, stretching out ahead like a collective sabbatical.
Were now being advised that social distancing measures, such as the closure of non-essential businesses, could persist in something like their current form for as many as eight months, which means we might have to spend the rest of the year sequestered in our apartments, forbidden to leave except to pick up groceries once a fortnight. In the absence of bars and restaurants, without concerts or cinemas, deprived of parties and dates, we are facing a period of superabundant leisure. The spare time is our
(Excerpt) Read more at nationalpost.com ...
Thanks nickcarraway. "Is't not the king?" "Ay, every inch a king."
To the Memory of My Beloved the Author, Master William Shakespeare, and What he Hath Left Us
by Ben Jonson
To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name,
Am I thus ample to thy book and fame;
While I confess thy writings to be such
As neither man nor muse can praise too much;
'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these ways
Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise;
For seeliest ignorance on these may light,
Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right;
Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance
The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance;
Or crafty malice might pretend this praise,
And think to ruin, where it seem'd to raise.
These are, as some infamous bawd or whore
Should praise a matron; what could hurt her more?
But thou art proof against them, and indeed,
Above th' ill fortune of them, or the need.
I therefore will begin. Soul of the age!
The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage!
My Shakespeare, rise! I will not lodge thee by
Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie
A little further, to make thee a room:
Thou art a monument without a tomb,
And art alive still while thy book doth live
And we have wits to read and praise to give.
That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses,
I mean with great, but disproportion'd Muses,
For if I thought my judgment were of years,
I should commit thee surely with thy peers,
And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine,
Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe's mighty line.
And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek,
From thence to honour thee, I would not seek
For names; but call forth thund'ring Aeschylus,
Euripides and Sophocles to us;
Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead,
To life again, to hear thy buskin tread,
And shake a stage; or, when thy socks were on,
Leave thee alone for the comparison
Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome
Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come.
Tri'umph, my Britain, thou hast one to show
To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe.
He was not of an age but for all time!
And all the Muses still were in their prime,
When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm
Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm!
Nature herself was proud of his designs
And joy'd to wear the dressing of his lines,
Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit,
As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit.
The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,
Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please,
But antiquated and deserted lie,
As they were not of Nature's family.
Yet must I not give Nature all: thy art,
My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part.
For though the poet's matter nature be,
His art doth give the fashion; and, that he
Who casts to write a living line, must sweat,
(Such as thine are) and strike the second heat
Upon the Muses' anvil; turn the same
(And himself with it) that he thinks to frame,
Or, for the laurel, he may gain a scorn;
For a good poet's made, as well as born;
And such wert thou. Look how the father's face
Lives in his issue, even so the race
Of Shakespeare's mind and manners brightly shines
In his well-turned, and true-filed lines;
In each of which he seems to shake a lance,
As brandish'd at the eyes of ignorance.
Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it were
To see thee in our waters yet appear,
And make those flights upon the banks of Thames,
That so did take Eliza and our James!
But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere
Advanc'd, and made a constellation there!
Shine forth, thou star of poets, and with rage
Or influence, chide or cheer the drooping stage;
Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourn'd like night,
And despairs day, but for thy volume's light.
Cooking and reading. Our library is still semi-open, so we can order books and they bring them out to the car for pickup. I am also deep cleaning and husband is working on the honey-do list.
I’ve been researching Covid and posting info here at FR and sending to local politicians, friends and activists. Happy to be stuck at home with the man I love who is busy starting another crop of legal weed and developing a theory of mind that I don’t really understand involving philosophy and mathematics. Has something to do with laws of form (G. Spencer Brown), and works of Wittgenstein and Bertrand Russell.
Meanwhile I am dealing with hard realities like getting caught up on several years of income taxes (don’t owe money but do owe the paperwork). Also trying to get a roof and addition finished on my beach cottage long distance with an inattentive contractor, and hoping to be able to leave home and go there to work on finishing my beautiful big new attic space. If I can ever get the damn taxes out of my hair I can continue pulling together the materials on several books I want to write. Being retired is so restful. ;-(
When I was much younger, my father had two Ford Falcons and 3 FF motors. He would piddle around on the third motor, cleaning cylinders, grinding valves, or some such thing. Then, every 50,000 miles he would pull a motor and put in the extra. He got 350,000 miles on one of the Falcons, but the bottom finally rusted out from snow and salt. I wonder how he would have done in Florida?
Where were you trying to buy the seeds and paint?
Funny in a singularity sort of way. My first car was a Ford Falcon. Strait six and very easy to work on. Replaced the generator brushes every 1500 miles. Did I mention the rust problem?
That isn’t retirement, just a new career.
1st career was 22 years Army.
2nd career was 20 years DoD desk officer.
3rd career will be missionary to Freetown.
I hope to die in the saddle. (Movie scenes spring to mind)
Sounds like fun! :^) The inattentive contractor may have gotten that way because of somewhat less legal weed, btw. :^o
Learning to play Coltrane and Charlie Parker heads on my bass.
Wrote a bunch of songs
Have finally nailed sourdough breadmaking
Catching up on my drinking from my misguided years of religious teetotaling years ago
Have you tried a few quaffs of this? ("Big Bad Baptist Imperial Stout")
I don’t know about his weed use where it is illegal, but I do know his energies were going into starting up a restaurant business and subbing his work to an incompetent.
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