April 29th, 2020

hasui: winter moon

The days grow shorter, not longer

Well, if you will stay up to 3 a.m. playing Addiction Solitaire, a prime depressive exercise, you can expect to sleep in till noon, thus curtailing the daylight hours considerably.

I made a carbonara for lunch-at-four, only the second pasta dish in six weeks. I carefully stocked up on lingiuini and rice but I'm really afraid to eat them, because starch is how I gain weight even when I'm moving more than I am now. Am not moving much: standing up is just too painful. But have resolved to exercise or stretch three times a day because it helps at least a little. I'm convinced I never do sufficient reps of any given exercise or hold stretches long enough, so at least I can do them more often?

Wednesday meme, uncut because DW won't let me handcode HTML


Two from the kitchen shelves, finally:

Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking
-- read her early stuff in the 70s and was fantodded. Slouching Towards Bethlehem and Play it as it lays viewed the world from the point of view of a migraineur: too much light, too much bright emptiness. Gave me a lifelong distaste for California that was confirmed in spades when I got there. LA is an agoraphobe's nightmare: wide wide streets like highways, low buildings on the faraway other side, *too much light, too much sky.* Fortunately Magical Thinking is more New York and thus readable. Not identifiable with, because I've never been married to someone for forty years, and losing a spouse is a lot different from losing a parent or a friend.

Edmund White, Inside a Pearl
-- another book that makes me want to turn to the east and say, 'I thank thee, Lord, that Thou hast not made me a New York writer.' I stan New York as I stan Paris, but I'm not sure I care for the intellectual class in either of them.

Reading now?
Burnett, The Secret Garden
-- couch reading, picked up off someone's lawn to be reread in my old age, which is now. Liked it as a kid; can read it now but won't be keeping it.

Still plugging along with the Rights of Magicians and The City of Yes.

There's still a number of kitchen books that I don't really want to read: LeGuin's Lavinia, Teot's War, that novel about Hokusai's daughter. I should just put them in a stack for Later, when people aren't paranoid about catching plague from other peoples books. I think I want something nonfiction, even though those nonfics up there were in fact too personal. Pursuit of the Millennium is looking better and better. Nice dry history...