It's another grey-skied lapsang souchong Thursday.
The Man fixed the electricity problem. I do love men, don't you?
I've got three blog posts to write today. (Yes, I really am sticking to a schedule). I've spent the morning doing anything but work. I'm organizing old photos and music. I plan on making lists at some point, lots and lots of lists, but I haven't even begun thinking about the lists. I'm watching the birds dig around in the wasteland that is our back garden in winter. They're sending dead leaves and wet twigs everywhere.
My books for next term arrived yesterday. I'm quite excited to read W.G. Sebald's The Rings of Saturn, but otherwise I'm unimpressed. Beloved I read years and years ago and despised. I hope I was wrong about it, that I was just being a snotty teenager, but as I recall, my general impression was, why does Toni Morrison have to write like this?
I'm digging KCRW this morning. My tea is just the right drinking temperature and I'm bobbing my head around to the Dandy Warhols and Loudon Wainwright, and Michael Franti. Not the most promising way to start a day meant to be rife with accomplishment, but good fun anyway. I'll check back later.
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Beloved is the only book I ever burned. I refuse to live in the same space with it--that's how much I despise that book. Charles and I were having an interesting discussion over what purposes fiction serves, what purposes it should serve (I have very definite opinions that sometimes result in roasting marshmallows over Toni Morrison's crackling byline). I so wish we lived closer so we could continue that conversation with you and Xander over a bottle of wine.
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