Sunday morning

As I typed my title, I remembered Wallace Stevens's poem, "Sunday Morning":

Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
And the green freedom of a cockatoo
Upon a rug mingle to dissipate
The holy hush of ancient sacrifice....

My "peignoir" is a pair of flannel pyjamas and it's not exactly sunny; it's raining, in fact.

I usually don't turn on my computer on Sundays, but the paper has not yet arrived--delayed by the rain, I suppose--and I had to get directions from my e-mail. I'm meeting a couple friends from school, and we're going to attend a Syrian Orthodox Church this morning.

Last night I finished the Elizabeth George mystery. It certainly was absorbing, although its subject matter was disturbing. Maybe I'll try one of the "Mysteries with a Literary Twist" mentioned in a recent WSJ column (paid subscription required) by Tom Nolan:

• The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde
• Dialogues of the Dead or Paronomania! by Reginald Hill
• My Best Friend by Laura Wilson
• [Omit]

Well, I just heard the paper arrive.