Greetings. For the first time this Fall, it's cold as shit outside, and I'm snuggled up under a Pendleton blanket waiting for M to join me in her flannel PJs. I've got turkey, corn, and black bean soup in my belly along with a bag of blue corn chips and half a box of cookies. So while this oncoming winter is a bit of a drag, I am as prepared as I can get.
Excuse me while I flip back to my gmail to see if the urgent response I'm awaiting has arrived.
More and more it feels like this is what work is these days: Being on call, constantly. More waiting, biding, doing things and waiting for the rest of the process to catch up to me. Getting to the point where I feel like I've expanded past the confines of my job.
Last night I went to the Ty Segall show with Z, who gave me a tiny gummy from his trip to Portland. I ate just 1/5th of it, and found myself pleasantly stroking the back of my head to the music.
Another thought occurred to me while listening:
The difference between Literature and just A Good Book can be measured in the quantity and the quality of Shame. Karl Ove? Mainly about Shame. Murakami? No Shame. And thus the unique literary work that is readable, digestible, bingeable . . .
Been enjoying Killing Commendatore, and just about done. Maybe 10 pages left. Don't have another book lined up for after yet.