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xaaraRain is so beautiful at night. Of course, it would be more beautiful if the streetlights weren't on, but that's sort of a quirk that I'll need to get over at some point. I'm an incorrigible city girl, but somehow I love it here most when we don't have any power. It gives the sun a little of its dignity back, I think, when we can't just pretend it doesn't exist.
The knife grinder--a wizened Italian man--is coming tomorrow. I love that we have a knife grinder. He has a little white van and he drives by twice a year accompanied by rhythmic clangs that announce his passage. When we hear the first clang, we have to speed out into the street, knives in hand. It's highly unsafe, and we resemble nothing so much as homicidal maniacs, waving weapons about in an attempt to frighten the neighbors away.
Once we catch him, he works his magic in minutes, and the knives that would only flatten chicken can now cut paper with only the barest application of pressure. He demonstrates this to us, holding up a sheet and skimming the knife over it until the paper flutters, halved, to the floor of his van.
After we pay him, he climbs back into the driver's seat of his van and pulls away, waving, clanging his way up the street, where butcher-knife-toting housewives sprint after him.
He's definitely getting a poem this time--I can feel it at the tips of my fingers, itching to be released.
The knife grinder--a wizened Italian man--is coming tomorrow. I love that we have a knife grinder. He has a little white van and he drives by twice a year accompanied by rhythmic clangs that announce his passage. When we hear the first clang, we have to speed out into the street, knives in hand. It's highly unsafe, and we resemble nothing so much as homicidal maniacs, waving weapons about in an attempt to frighten the neighbors away.
Once we catch him, he works his magic in minutes, and the knives that would only flatten chicken can now cut paper with only the barest application of pressure. He demonstrates this to us, holding up a sheet and skimming the knife over it until the paper flutters, halved, to the floor of his van.
After we pay him, he climbs back into the driver's seat of his van and pulls away, waving, clanging his way up the street, where butcher-knife-toting housewives sprint after him.
He's definitely getting a poem this time--I can feel it at the tips of my fingers, itching to be released.
