I ate a pile of onion rings last night, which only reminded me I'm too old for such foolish indulgences. Christer brought them as a treat, and I should be glad he didn't bring bath salts or Turtles, but still.
I went to bed to read Herman Wouk's Marjorie Morningstar, which always reminds me that old fashioned isn't less relevant and that good writing stands the test of time. I like ol' Herman's characters, and I'm always reminded that character is character (or lack thereof) regardless of which era we're talking about.
"The blow stunned the girl for a week, and she went through agonies of jealousy and remorse, and fantasies of revenge, which amazed her with their violence. But she did nothing. There was really nothing to do. In a heroic last surprise, George had stood up from the chopping block, seized the axe, and hit her with it; and that was that."
And that was that. That piece summed up a feeling that's been squirreling around my head for too long now. Thanks, Herman.
It's been a chaotic month and I keep seeking tethers, like those on hot air balloons you see as they're securely bolted down. I want some of those, until I remember that the beauty of the balloon is when it is flying, not when it's nailed to the ground.
With my attention span wandering all over, I've also been reading Stephen King short stories. I love short stories. Lost art and all that, I am totally devoted to those who have mastered it. Alice Munroe - of course -and Shirley Jackson rock the form, and King, too can be a master. King's letting out more and more these days, as his writing becomes more of a window. He's always been his own main character, but the peeks into characters with OCD, migraines, and battles with typical middle aged creaky bodies has moved him past imagined horrors of the mind into the realization that real life is scary enough.
In the tub I was reading about Hemingway in Vanity Fair in an article called The Hunt for Hemingway. No matter how much my friends may rightly hate his misogynistic, often one dimensional writing, I can't help being drawn to it, and him. I desperately searched for six toed cats (my own Hunt for Part of Hemingway) while I was in Key West earlier this year. I deserved to see them. I didn't. I didn't deserve to see anything but random roosters and a spectacular sunrise. I won, after all. Sometimes the best things happen when you're waiting on something else. Or so I tell myself.