Wed May 16th, 2018
|11:11 pm - Random reading Wednesday|
When did reading become something I just don't do unless it requires no effort? I could read Brust-- or reread Brust-- but everyone else is Too Much Work. Easier to play Yukon solitaire and read the random news stories my tablet throws up at me. This is depression, I recognize that, but it's the cozy depression that keeps everything same and low-key; and it still carries depression's theme song of Why Bother? Why Bother has been a recurring motif in my life, which is why I have no resources to combat things like Trump's Rapture and my increasing physical limitations.
Of course the 18th century thought the best thing for depression was work, which works just fine for me until I get home. But today I did at least do laundry and bagged up the unpleasant outdoor cushions for the garbage. (It's not the cats that sit on them as the squirrels-I-think that drop white pooplets on them. Except it doesn't look like the squirrel poo I see on the fence at work, which is roundish and never goes white. All the mice have been poisoned, and anyway it's bigger than mouse poo. Must be squirrels, but how...?) Anyway, this summer the cushions come inside when I do, which should preserve them.
Also did finish a book:
Pratchett, The Shepherd's Crown
-- yes, it goes downhill in the last half, with more repetition and more italics than it needs, but the first bit is the genuine thing, and I'm glad to have it.
Melissa Scott, Point of Sighs, if I could stop playing Yukon soitaire long enough to do it.
Jane Bowles, Plain Pleasures, on my shelves since forever and 'how hard can it be to read short stories?' Hard enough when you get into some git in Guatemala being gittish and everyone else looking insane to his gittish eyes. Sometimes too I wonder what's the point of short stories, when they aren't telling an actual story like Kipling does, but just being watercolour opaque thin slices of a not very exciting life. Like poetry, perhaps, an acquired taste; or like music, something you need to be trained to appreciate.
Can I say I'm still reading Rose Tremaine when I haven't got past the first three pages of the first story in Evangelista's Fan, and that three weeks ago?
Paul Cornell, Witches of Lychford, in hopes that it isn't as harrowing as the Shadow Police series.
Oh, no doubt at all. In my 20s I played real solitaire to kill the time, but after that there was all that Dickens to wade through.