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Jul. 2nd, 2007
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Jul. 2nd, 2007 10:26 amI managed, after that earlier bit of whinging to fall back asleep. At least, after I read from some random pages of The Vintner's Luck. I like its cadence and find comfort in it. It was a book I read when I full with more specific grief than I had been possibly ever. Grief is different than other things, other forms of sadness and desperation -- it leaves you clear-heeaded enough to notice it -- unlike anguish or fear or misery.
I tend to want to quote from it when I am happy, but its happiness is so specific. Names, dates, places, complex incidents, that there's very little to take from it out of context. I always look anyway though. And come up only with "A year of blankness." That book marked mine. One of mine anyway.
I dreamed Michael wrote, although he hasn't in some time. I dreamed I told him about the book and how he wouldn't like it very much, which is true, although I think it would remind him of me. That might be why. It would be not just not to his tastes, but discomforting, I'd imagine.
Now that I'm actually awake, the pain is back -- I mean my leg cramps and so forth. But I'll spend the day being friendly with Tylenol, work, a casting (I've been told to dress "trendy" again -- that's a terrible word, and one I suspect I don't know the meaning of, not jsut because I am not so much up on trends, but because I lack an understanding of its current connotation and it seems to mean different wardrobe styles to members of different groups. I wish people wouldn't say it in castings - and so I just wear what I please and show myself to know nothing of fashion I imagine), fencing, pondering of the next immanent adventure. I hope I spelled that word right, I always have problems with it.
Life is good. I am pleased. Summer is rarely a powerful season for me, but oh this one has been rebel and alien - cooler than usual too, so maybe that's it.
I tend to want to quote from it when I am happy, but its happiness is so specific. Names, dates, places, complex incidents, that there's very little to take from it out of context. I always look anyway though. And come up only with "A year of blankness." That book marked mine. One of mine anyway.
I dreamed Michael wrote, although he hasn't in some time. I dreamed I told him about the book and how he wouldn't like it very much, which is true, although I think it would remind him of me. That might be why. It would be not just not to his tastes, but discomforting, I'd imagine.
Now that I'm actually awake, the pain is back -- I mean my leg cramps and so forth. But I'll spend the day being friendly with Tylenol, work, a casting (I've been told to dress "trendy" again -- that's a terrible word, and one I suspect I don't know the meaning of, not jsut because I am not so much up on trends, but because I lack an understanding of its current connotation and it seems to mean different wardrobe styles to members of different groups. I wish people wouldn't say it in castings - and so I just wear what I please and show myself to know nothing of fashion I imagine), fencing, pondering of the next immanent adventure. I hope I spelled that word right, I always have problems with it.
Life is good. I am pleased. Summer is rarely a powerful season for me, but oh this one has been rebel and alien - cooler than usual too, so maybe that's it.