Well, I can't go on trying to read these uninspiring books. I've wrangled with them long enough. Yesterday while reading some poetry by Dean Young I was reminded what it was like to be excited and inspired by what you read. I don't have anything around that's doing that right now. Marianne Moore and I continue not to gel. Her tone, her subject matter, her style--they all kind of keep me away. JG Ballard's stories are too drably conceptual and the Gene Wolfe is too adolescent creepy. The Eco book on the history of beauty is fine to dip into, but it's filled with typos, it's unfocussed, and much of the writing is garbled and opaque. It's a disappointment.
So, new books. Many new books. I've already checked some stuff out from the library, and now I'm going to amazon. And I am getting down tonight. I'm going to get with it. I'm going to give Santa Monica something it ain't never had....
Two elderly women on walkers just came to the door. They were smartly dressed and I was sure they had been friends of our home's last owner. Instead, they told me they were here to talk about the good news that is contained in God's Bible. That surprised me. I would have liked to have invite them in but right now my Zoroastrian sacrificial altar is still out in the middle of the living room. So, that might have been awkward.
1 comment:
Dude. Zoroastrians count double!
Would you like to come over and help me set my manuscript on fire? It's a set stuff on fire kind of day over here.
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