Turn of the year
The Dead Days this year are cold rather than warm- reasonable cold, not arctic vortex- so the grey is sharp and hard-edged and sprinkled with white as in childhood holidays, not the dank depressing melting lour of the mid-oughties. Would enjoy it more if I weren't crippled. My left knee objects to my boots, my wide perfect boots, and stabs whenever I walk in them. Stabs also when I bicycle and might stab in shoes, who knows. If it wouldn't snowflurry so picturesquely I'd be willing to give shoes a try. However, happy pills or possibly maturity make me sanguine about all this. What will be, will, and all that.
It's still and suddenly Wednesday again.
Finished?
The Hanging Tree. Am not ambitious, as you can see, even though I do nothing but lie on bed/ sofa and, in theory, read.
On the go?
Everything else, still. Akata Witch which doesn't suit the season, The Burning Page and Queen Victoris's Book of Spells which do, When I Find You Again It Will Be In Mountains which still goes slowly. And for bedtime/ heat up the beanbags reading, The Showings of Julian of Norwich, in an uninspired translation which perhaps emphasises what she's saying more than the way she says it. Loved the latter but am realizing Julian was a bit of a loon in the good old medieval masochistic tradition. The farther I get from my Catholic girlhood with its indecent relish of ohh the ways St Rose of Lima went about mortifying her flesh, the battier this looks to me.
Next?
Where I was 84 of 256 last I looked, suddenly Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children is on its way from the library, as well as a translation of Wang Wei.
It's still and suddenly Wednesday again.
Finished?
The Hanging Tree. Am not ambitious, as you can see, even though I do nothing but lie on bed/ sofa and, in theory, read.
On the go?
Everything else, still. Akata Witch which doesn't suit the season, The Burning Page and Queen Victoris's Book of Spells which do, When I Find You Again It Will Be In Mountains which still goes slowly. And for bedtime/ heat up the beanbags reading, The Showings of Julian of Norwich, in an uninspired translation which perhaps emphasises what she's saying more than the way she says it. Loved the latter but am realizing Julian was a bit of a loon in the good old medieval masochistic tradition. The farther I get from my Catholic girlhood with its indecent relish of ohh the ways St Rose of Lima went about mortifying her flesh, the battier this looks to me.
Next?
Where I was 84 of 256 last I looked, suddenly Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children is on its way from the library, as well as a translation of Wang Wei.