(See a description of the #433rds project here.)
Little Miss Spider Muffet
An idiot day, mostly, noir with deep shadows and Pepi curled into my butt, but! Progress! The mental judo it takes to get oneself to do a thing. Sometimes the lovely book-miracles happen. Today in the tub, it was Jane Tompkins on Westerns. Not my book and I chose it at random, but the first page I opened to! Truth opens in the bathtub heat!
Forget the corner mildew. It’s the gospel of Jesus’ wife, exhumed! (Not a forgery, they think. The inclusion of a single woman is probably not a forgery. And Jesus might be a fish, but Stanley Fish isn’t Jesus.) Hooray! Hip hip.
It is 1.6 inches by 3.1 inches, that gospel is. We haven’t lost all sense of proportion. Still, many congratulations to Karen King, who is brilliant, even if she didn’t think the title “Jesus wife” would be inflammatory. She said, back in 2012, that if the fragment was proved not to be a forgery, it would be “cherry on the cake.” Cherries on cakes is new to me. The expression, I thought, was icing.
First course: Sara Lee strawberry cheesecake. (I chose it over the cherry.) Second: avocado on a tuffet of greens. When it comes to articles of faith, I do not believe in dessert putting a lien on dinner. Pudding first, meal last and lots of salt and lemon.
The day was mostly muscles aquiver with pain, but a few vigorous elbowings later, some fe fi fo fumming, and they’re cello strings now instead of screaming violins. Today’s headache was sponsored by Key and Peele, whose Continental Breakfast sketch helped ratchet my neck a few clicks loose.
The Pepper-Spray Cop got $38,000 for his emotional distress. Hard to be a meme. Two rappers fight over their bitches on Instagram but one might have been hacked. Robin Williams walks around looking angry. Craig Ferguson might lose his job. It’s all to do with faces, isn’t it: the detail with which we look at one and the story we’re willing to see.