Tired

-
Image
Finishing Chapter 8. Halfway through but it’s an uphill climb. Need a break but afraid of stopping. 

Partly cloudy with dunder-heads.

-
I am amazed at the constant ineffeciency of so many people. This is probably the most arrogant thing I have ever said. Most people I depend on surprise me occasionally with questions and issues that really rock my world--and it drives me nuts!

I have to say it--THERE ARE DUNDER-HEADS ABOUT!

I wish sometimes I had a big old iron skillet to just haul out and clang upside someone's noggin.

There. I said it.

Popular posts from this blog

"On Keeping A Notebook" by Joan Didion

-
Image
I'm nearly finished reading Joan Didion's collection of essays, Slouching Towards Bethlehem.  The book was discovered through another book I was reading, Jon Krakauer's Eiger Dreams . If Jon felt this book was good enough to pack along on a mountain climbing expedition, then I'm interested. Took me three tries, but I finally found my copy on Amazon. One of the best book buys I've made. Joan selected the title of this book from William Butler Yeats' classic poem, Second Coming . The book title is shared with one of her larger essays, a record of encounters with people in the 1960's drug culture. Didion's book is divided into three distinct parts: "Life Styles In The Golden Land," a collection of articles capturing the California experience of the 1960's; "Personals," a few of essays of the first-hand nature; and "Seven Places Of The Mind", some thoughts about those parts of California that are now long gone. One essay...
Read more

“And so, about this tomb of mine . . . “

-
Image
  “VANITY, saith the preacher, vanity!  Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back?  Nephews—sons mine … ah God, I know not! Well—  She, men would have to be your mother once,  Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was!  What’s done is done, and she is dead beside,  Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since,  And as she died so must we die ourselves,  And thence ye may perceive the world’s a dream.  Life, how and what is it?  As here I lie In this state-chamber, dying by degrees,  Hours and long hours in the dead night,  I ask “Do I live, am I dead?”  Peace, peace seems all.  Saint Praxed’s ever was the church for peace;  And so, about this tomb of mine.  I fought With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know:  —Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care;  Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner  South He graced his carrion with,  God curse the same!  Yet still my niche is not so cramped...
Read more