Moments of mysterious silence. ALL SILENT. And then it’s gone. Leaving everyone wondering and feeling a weird sense of loss. Like someone or something had jerked them away from a warm light they didn’t know they were moving toward. It seems appropriate and eerie that I should read Kevin Brockmeier’s “The Year of Silence” today.
Browsing category blogging
I’m eating crumpets smothered in Lurpak and reading from one of my Christmas gifts: The Best American Short Stories (2008), edited by Salman Rushdie. In the past, short stories have not always been my favourite thing. I like to be in it for the long haul. But I’ve found they make exceedingly good bed fellows
Thanks to the Glandular Fever I’m convinced I’ve got…I’ve managed to spend a lot of time reading this week. Last night I finished up the following: “MOOSE”, by Stephanie Klein. I’m a four year fan of Klein and Greek Tragedy. I read her first memoir “Straight Up and Dirty” the day I brought it home.
Flynn: I read this morning that Bette Midler’s husband bought her the entire Penguin Classics series. That’s adorable. I have a real soft spot for her cause she’s just so brassy and sassy but self-aware and, you know, Beaches. Me: I’m with you on Bette. Also, she’s top heavy. And I like those sort of
This morning was the first in over a week that I crawled out of bed feeling half normal. I’m spending the day disinfecting pretty much everything that can be disinfected, listening to BBC WorldService, and reading the two dozen papers The Euro can’t seem to stop subscribing to. Somehow I ended up back at the
If any of my secret admirers have an extra seven grand laying around and would like to bestow it upon the object of their affection, please feel free to do so in the following manner: The Penguin Classics Library Complete Collection: More than 1000 of the Greatest Classics. Cheers, Buffy
“No, you do not have thousands of years to live. Urgency is on you. While you live, while you can, become good.” – Marcus Aurelius Everyone around me is sick. I’ve been saying little prayers all week that my house be spared, but earlier tonight The Euro started breaking out in cold sweats. We were
“The Writer must write what he has to say. Not speak it.” – Hemingway I can count the people who’ve seen me cry on half a hand. I joke that I’m emotionally stunted. And that’s the joke…that it’s not one. It’s something I’m working on. An ‘In Progress’ type thing. On Christmas Eve I sat
My mother is all about kitschy Christmas. She can’t help herself. Everything is red and green and mechanical with puffballs and candy canes and Santa Claus. I have a fabulous pair of elf socks, and this lovely trucker hat (of a sort) to prove it. Speaking of the mother…we always take photos of her Yorkie
If you live in Cheshire, or anywhere thereabouts, then Delemere Forrest is really the only place you should be getting your trees. The whole thing becomes a festive event. Like the opening scene from National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. Trekking out to the almost-middle-of-nowhere. Hiking it from there. Except, of course, it’s so much prettier. Because
“Of all the Charlie Brown’s in the world, you’re the Charlie Browniest.” I’ve been listening to Vince Guaraldi all week long. There’s something wonderfully calming about all the lovely colours in old hand drawn cartoons. Charlie Brown’s Christmas.
