I slept a full seven hours.
Lá fhéile Pádraig sona dhuit. We'll be making a shepherd's pie and cabbage. I wanted to do something different this year, not our usual brisket. Oh, and soda bread.
Yesterday, I did 544 words on "Objects in the Mirror."
Last night, Kathryn read to me from Danielewski's The Familiar, while I worked on the new Klimt jigsaw puzzle, Die Jungfrau. Later, we watch Ron Howard's Heart of the Sea, adapted from Nathaniel Philbrick's 2000 book of the same name. I've been fascinated with the tale of the Essex since, I suppose, forever. It was, of course, the inspiration for Melville's Moby-Dick, a whaling ship sunk in 1820 by a gigantic sperm whale, two thousand miles from land, the survivors reduced the cannibalism. It's a beautiful film, and were I more awake, I'd do a better job of explaining why. It unfolds like living painting, terror and wonder and awe. It is both a tale of cosmic horror and an indictment of whaling. I do not know why it was not better received. Anthony Dod Mantle's cinematography is genuinely breathtaking, and the film unfolds like a animated oil painting. I very strongly recommend it.
And now, work and such.