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Work's slow today with only two days left 'til the weekend. I suppose everyone is mentally counting down to Friday. In the office next door, one of the lawyers is listening to Imogen Heap. This pleases me. This pleases me a lot, actually. While she isn't my favorite artist, Ms. Heap is a vast improvement over the lawyer's usual fare. Last week he was on a bagpipes-and-Scottish-drums kick. And the week before that it was Mardi Gras jazz (which, incidentally, was so generic and bright it made my teeth hurt). Maybe next week he'll move on to The Shins, or The Mountain Goats, or The Decemberists. Perhaps I'll hear The Tiger Lilies one afternoon. More than likely, though, he'll just go back to whistling "Don't you Want me, Baby?" No, baby, I do not.
Speaking of babies, my little sister will be graduating from the nursing program in a few weeks. It's funny, I say babies when she's newly 24. But that age group still seems very young to me, full of noisy, misplaced confidence. One can only hope the world will drain their pettiness from them. Time has been known to do wonders.
Oh, my poor brain is having trouble keeping its finger on the pages of my thought today. I find myself losing my place, or skipping ahead. I'm reminded of those lines in that Eliot poem:
Words strain,
Crack and sometimes break, under the burden,
Under the tension, slip, slide, perish,
Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place,
Will not stay still.
I remember liking that a lot years ago. I remember reading more often.
My friend Rachel and I had a very nice conversation about books yesterday. We used to select things to read together -- Life of Pi, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, The Underground Man, Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell. There were others, but I've forgotten them now. I miss sharing literature with friends. We did that a lot at the bookstore. Recommendations were passed along and scribbled down into little notebooks; conversations sprung up around David Mitchell, Orhan Pamuk, Umberto Eco. And then all of us went off to grad school, or jobs, or other things. I'm lucky if I finish 30 books a year now, and luckier still if I mention them to anyone.
Life is bizarre. I won't dispute that. But could it get a little better, please?
Speaking of babies, my little sister will be graduating from the nursing program in a few weeks. It's funny, I say babies when she's newly 24. But that age group still seems very young to me, full of noisy, misplaced confidence. One can only hope the world will drain their pettiness from them. Time has been known to do wonders.
Oh, my poor brain is having trouble keeping its finger on the pages of my thought today. I find myself losing my place, or skipping ahead. I'm reminded of those lines in that Eliot poem:
Words strain,
Crack and sometimes break, under the burden,
Under the tension, slip, slide, perish,
Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place,
Will not stay still.
I remember liking that a lot years ago. I remember reading more often.
My friend Rachel and I had a very nice conversation about books yesterday. We used to select things to read together -- Life of Pi, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, The Underground Man, Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell. There were others, but I've forgotten them now. I miss sharing literature with friends. We did that a lot at the bookstore. Recommendations were passed along and scribbled down into little notebooks; conversations sprung up around David Mitchell, Orhan Pamuk, Umberto Eco. And then all of us went off to grad school, or jobs, or other things. I'm lucky if I finish 30 books a year now, and luckier still if I mention them to anyone.
Life is bizarre. I won't dispute that. But could it get a little better, please?
