I really like this one post that I started. It's about crazy people. Common theme.
Just so everyone knows, I'm going out into the Adirondacks, a land of great forests and little Internet and slightly more cell-phone access, until Wednesday. Why? Because I'm crazy, or else it just sounds nice and I'm in a bit of a rut and I hope this will provide a change of scenery as well as a place so without the Internet that I can write most prodigiously. So, you know, six of one.
I think I'll probably write lj stuff, and backdate it, because I've got a few things to say.
I'm almost done with the packing, by which I've picked all the books: Beloved, The Killer Angels, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and whatever else I've got lying about. I've meant to go through my room and separate all the books into piles of what I have read and what I haven't, but I know that will turn into an exercise in starting to flip through Sabriel, so let's avoid that.
I'm most of the way through Maise Dobbs (I'll talk about it when I get back. And yes, I've started Beloved). I have another Book-on-Tape to get through (I hadn't realized how fast this would go...), but I'm concerned. The thing is, it's a seven disc set of To the Lighthouse. Or rather, it claims to be that. In fact, it is six discs, and a seventh disc which consists of (I kid you not) Duets: The Final Chapter. The rational mind has no explanation for this; the CD even has To the Lighthouse stamped on it. Fortunatly, it's Virginia Fucking Woolf. I'm hardly going to find myself in suspence, unable to complete the story, wondering to myself did they make it to the lighthouse?!? The only thing that I'll wonder, I expect, is whether the end falls apart as well (or, more to the point, as catastrophically) as the end to Orlando did.
If the total number of times episodes of Firefly were watched was spread evenly across the nation, it never would have gotten gorram canceled.
I'm not watching anymore I mean it.