Have I really had so little to say, lately?
The good things in life: My office moved to downtown Palo Alto (oh, what a migration, oh, what a downtown...), which is lovely because, for now, it means my commute to work is a 10-15 minute walk. Yesterday I even took the train to Mountain View for dinner and drinks with Dianna. What a relief it is to retire the Red Rocket and to re-instate my feet as my primary mode of transit. My desk gets light mainly from a skylight, and though I'm no longer by a window, I can see out. No more venture capitalists, though Palo Alto still is not so much for the common folk (expensive cars still surround). I will almost miss my walk over 280... but not nearly enough to want to work in that hellish place where I spent the last 6 months. And oh, is the air so much better here. And I've even started wearing my now very discolored hat. I've got all the old accouterments of Me.
And of all the delights, I get to go see The Mountain Goats on Thursday! I can't even say how excited I am. I just wish Samara were going with. That would be of the utmost delight.
What else? The Painted Veil was extraordinary, if depressing. Long, beautiful shots... it was not really about China at all as much as being out of ones element (well, and of course, the unexpected discovery of love). I finished Middlesex which I did not enjoy as much as I expected to. I think I am becoming bored with the memoir as a genre. If all it has to bank on is strangeness, it really needs appropriately awesome writing to bolster that. Middlesex almost had it, but really, not quite. Also, if Checkov's weapon is one device of sorts, Eugenides followed that guidance too closely. By the end, the novel had sort of devolved into self discovery--and therefore into the mundane.
I also have an essay of sorts that, as soon as I can figure out how to link to it (rather than the whole two page length), I will post.
And of all the delights, I get to go see The Mountain Goats on Thursday! I can't even say how excited I am. I just wish Samara were going with. That would be of the utmost delight.
What else? The Painted Veil was extraordinary, if depressing. Long, beautiful shots... it was not really about China at all as much as being out of ones element (well, and of course, the unexpected discovery of love). I finished Middlesex which I did not enjoy as much as I expected to. I think I am becoming bored with the memoir as a genre. If all it has to bank on is strangeness, it really needs appropriately awesome writing to bolster that. Middlesex almost had it, but really, not quite. Also, if Checkov's weapon is one device of sorts, Eugenides followed that guidance too closely. By the end, the novel had sort of devolved into self discovery--and therefore into the mundane.
I also have an essay of sorts that, as soon as I can figure out how to link to it (rather than the whole two page length), I will post.