This image just makes me happy and makes me think romantic things like old-timey airplanes propellering over lush gardens and all the tea drinkers looking up and going, Ooooh; I love long dresses, strappy dresses, one-shoulder dresses, ruffled dresses, big billowy dresses that drag behind, and I love water and rolling waves and think it's great that for this shot the dress is dragging in wet sand and everything here seems just perfect, perfect, yes perfect. I want this dress. I would wear it all the time, everywhere. She looks like seaweed spat up onto shore; I love that. Perfect.
It's Christmas. Merry Christmas. I wrote a Christmas story once; it was about an ethnobotanist (part of it ended up at elimae). I had fun researching that story; one of the better lines I look back on fondly is: "Immediate lab tests revealed severe hepatocellular damage and discovered acute renal failure, and half an hour later: dead. Postmortem histopathological study of his liver later confirms panlobular hepatic necrosis . . . " Yeah, I had fun writing that one.
Today's post title comes from Mary Ruefle's "The Most of It," from The Most of It, which is the best thing I've read in the past month or two. I go back to it again and again. There's something about the tone, throughout, that just floors me. Some of the pieces are real and some of them are fantastic and some of them are meditative and some are confessional and some are reportage and all in all it's an incredible collection; I only wish more collections existed that could as satisfactorily meet my reading needs for a cumulative, overall effect that delivers the same sort of rewards as reading novels.
I was asked if I wanted this Dragon software, but I don't think it would do anything for me but slow me down. I mean, I think it would be fun to try, like as a novelty gag or something, but I'm fairly certain I wouldn't like it. My father, who thought otherwise, kept saying, "But wouldn't it be great for writing?" and I was like, "I don't think so. I need to see the words," and he said, "You do see them; it's no different from typing," and I was like, "Well, I mean I guess I think through my fingers," and he gave me a look like Kiddo's nuts.
Feels good to be blogging again. I miss it. I mean, I have missed it. I think I'll try to make it a point to try to keep up with it more regularly.
I have this character in a thing I'm worried about but it's the only thing I wrote all year so I hope it's better than I fear but anyway this is one of my favorite passages about her:
"The teacher lived near restaurants but chose to cook for herself. Her single financial indulgence was season’s tickets to the Center for Contemporary Arts. It was only a ten-minute walk from the fountain to the theater district. At the CCA that evening a comedy. She wanted modern dance instead. Always wanted dance instead. If she could do it over. Her childhood and all those years since. All that time and thought spent in practice devoted to the getting better at something. That something would be dancing. With her body she would say Look at me and weep. How it moves you."