Rubbed My Chin

Fuzzy beard on my face.  I’m afraid Paul Ryan’s is coming in a bit darker than mine.  I got a hair cut the other day.   “Why not leave it?” I thought, considering the two-day growth.  A week later we’ve got a plush, grey hedge. 

I have one Marcos Valle album that I really love: “Previsao de Tiempo” from 1973.  I remember hearing it a few times while on vacation in the Algarve.  This carefree ideal of relaxation and studied leisure, comes to mind when I hear this album now.  I’ve searched out a few albums prior and later and it remains the one that seems most interesting, consistent. 

I just scratched my face.  I cupped my hand in my chin and rubbed my chin ponderously.  The fur ball demanded rubbing.  Did I rub my chin as much when I had no fur on it? 

Windswept and tired. I’m ready to head to bed.  I’ll bring my latest book up with me but I doubt I’ll get far.  “The Life of My Choosing” is the autobiography of Wilfred Thessiger who is born in Ethiopia, the son of a British official.  At this point we are in Eton with him, looking up at the statue of the founder of that school, Henry VI.  But we all know his destiny lies in returning to Abyssinia.  I gave a friend a copy for Christmas suggesting it was a Hitch-like book. He doesn’t write as well as Patrick Leigh Fermor but the life seems similarly remarkable.

I nearly erased half this doc but I caught the missing para above, just as I was about to save thing.    I’m not sure if this carpet on my face will last till Christmas.