At long last, I finished "The Portable Dorothy Parker" this morning.
It's chockablock full of purple highlighted lines - many of them her razor-sharp and sometimes acerbic witty one-liners, many lines just absolutely brilliant I had to read them aloud and relish the way they rolled off my lips.
It took a long time to close the book on her, and I feel changed after reading her.
I wish I lived during that time when journalists were infamous celebrities - and not just because I am a journalist myself.
It seems so much better to ready splashy tabloids about drunken witty writers than whorish no-talent "actresses" and "actors," does it not?
Next on my nightstand:
- Finish the partially started "On the Road with Bob Dylan" by Larry "Ratso" Sloman.
- Follow that with "The Fountainhead" by Ayn Rand.
And with that, Mr. Dylan and I have a date on my freshly cleaned back porch.
I love spring Sundays at home!
Showing posts with label spring. Show all posts
Showing posts with label spring. Show all posts
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Sunday, February 8, 2009
It's starting to hit.
Spring fever.
It has sprung its ugly, yet hopeful head.
It hit me yesterday when it was so brilliantly sunny and bright, and I could hear the staccato drip-drip of the snow melting into colossal puddles on the front walk that I had to leap over.
It hit me this morning as I walked around the school in the spring-scented-yet-chilly winter air as I remembered seeing those same types of rays of sun coming down to earth in stripes through back lit clouds as a kid and thinking, "They're taking someone home to heaven" - how innocent and kind of profound for a young Catholic school girl with a crooked smile and vast imagination.
It hit me sitting at my parents' kitchen table with the sun pouring in around Mom and I as we read the papers and caught up, not needing the little heater for warmth for the first time in weeks.
It hit me as I ran out to my car before I left their house, as the moon - high and bright in the sky - ricocheted off the snow refreezing from today's defrost.
And it hit me when I got home and didn't have to crank up the heat too much to keep this drafty old house comfortable. (An Eskimo would fare well with me, me thinks, or a narwhal at the very least.)
That's the magic of spring fever I guess.
It's like a mirage - just when you are fooled into thinking "It's over!" and get the itch to crack open a window or stop wearing a jacket, you remember that it's only early February - we've still got a lot of winter left.
[Deep sigh.]
It has sprung its ugly, yet hopeful head.
It hit me yesterday when it was so brilliantly sunny and bright, and I could hear the staccato drip-drip of the snow melting into colossal puddles on the front walk that I had to leap over.
It hit me this morning as I walked around the school in the spring-scented-yet-chilly winter air as I remembered seeing those same types of rays of sun coming down to earth in stripes through back lit clouds as a kid and thinking, "They're taking someone home to heaven" - how innocent and kind of profound for a young Catholic school girl with a crooked smile and vast imagination.
It hit me sitting at my parents' kitchen table with the sun pouring in around Mom and I as we read the papers and caught up, not needing the little heater for warmth for the first time in weeks.
It hit me as I ran out to my car before I left their house, as the moon - high and bright in the sky - ricocheted off the snow refreezing from today's defrost.
And it hit me when I got home and didn't have to crank up the heat too much to keep this drafty old house comfortable. (An Eskimo would fare well with me, me thinks, or a narwhal at the very least.)
That's the magic of spring fever I guess.
It's like a mirage - just when you are fooled into thinking "It's over!" and get the itch to crack open a window or stop wearing a jacket, you remember that it's only early February - we've still got a lot of winter left.
[Deep sigh.]
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