Gah! C’mon!

Gah! C’mon!


Oct25: “But no temple made with hands can compare to Yosemite. Every rock in its walls seems to glow with life. Some lean back in majestic repose; others, absolutely sheer… advance beyond their companions in thoughtful attitudes, giving welcome and to storms and calms alike, seemingly aware, yet heedless, of everything going on about them. Awful in stern, immovable majesty, how softly these rocks are adorned, and how fine and reassuring the company they keep: their feet among beautiful groves and meadows, their brows in the sky, a thousand flowers leaning confidingly against their feet, bathed in floods of water, floods of light, while the snow and waterfalls, the wind and avalanches and clouds shine and sing and wreathe about them as the years go by, and myriads of small winged creatures- birds, bees, butterflies- give glad animation and help to make the air into music.”

Oct25: “But no temple made with hands can compare to Yosemite. Every rock in its walls seems to glow with life. Some lean back in majestic repose; others, absolutely sheer… advance beyond their companions in thoughtful attitudes, giving welcome and to storms and calms alike, seemingly aware, yet heedless, of everything going on about them. Awful in stern, immovable majesty, how softly these rocks are adorned, and how fine and reassuring the company they keep: their feet among beautiful groves and meadows, their brows in the sky, a thousand flowers leaning confidingly against their feet, bathed in floods of water, floods of light, while the snow and waterfalls, the wind and avalanches and clouds shine and sing and wreathe about them as the years go by, and myriads of small winged creatures- birds, bees, butterflies- give glad animation and help to make the air into music.”


Aug4: <juliachildvoice> I am now, making for you, a galette de pêche, or a peach galette. This galette is made out of one pound of chocolate, a whole lobster, a beautiful eye of newt, a 1/4 cup of rum, cream and eggs. </juliachildvoice>

Aug4: <juliachildvoice> I am now, making for you, a galette de pêche, or a peach galette. This galette is made out of one pound of chocolate, a whole lobster, a beautiful eye of newt, a 1/4 cup of rum, cream and eggs. </juliachildvoice>



The Turn

Turn on your speakers. It’s beautiful.

“If you succumb to the temptation of using violence in the struggle, unborn generations will be the recipients of a long and desolate night of bitterness, and your chief legacy to the future will be an endless reign of meaningless chaos.”
— Martin Luther King, Jr.

Legacy

I’ve been thinking about legacy today. The media is all over Bush’s legacy. Just what will we say about him 75-100 years from now? First, I want to say, 75-100 years from now can stuff it. It’s not their hopes and dreams that are being dicked around with at the moment. 75-100 years from now knows how this “Choose Your Own Adventure” issue worked out. I can only hope that someone with my half of my chromosomes gets a say in how we will remember this period of time. Which leads me to this question: isn’t my legacy and yours tied to Bush’s legacy? Isn’t it our progeny being the ones who will be remembering? What is our legacy? What will the next generations say about an administration that preemptively started a war on foreign soil, suspended habeas corpus, allowed and encouraged torture in our name, wiretapped its own citizens, outted a CIA agent, failed to respond to the devastation of a major city- all without single solitary recourse from its citizenry? I don’t think we are going to get our “Frost/Nixon” moment, because I really don’t know if we want it enough. If we are lucky, our descendants will be forgiving.

“There’s no such thing as legacies. At least, there is a legacy, but I’ll never see it.”
— George W. Bush

Book Club

My book club book came in from amazon today. Normally, I’m excited about the idea of books coming to my doorstep (it’s a rare thing, since I’m such a staunch supporter of Powell’s). But it just made me angry.

Book Clubs should appeal to me on so many levels. I like books. I like talking about books. I like talking about books with knowledgeable, smart people. I like meeting new, smart people and being exposed to new, smart things.

But here’s the thing that will always plague my book critique career- book reading time is MY time. Not someone elses’.

I remember having this problem back in 6th grade. We could choose any book we wanted from a designated list to write a report on. I chose a softball, blasted through it, and got back to my own thigh-high stack of Nancy Drews.  I had my own list on those stained yellow back covers, baby, and I had to get it done in my childhood.

But before I could make a dent in “The Mystery of the (insert haunted, yet portable antique item here)”, the school librarian caught me. The jig was up: if I couldn’t be trusted to choose a book that was appropriate to my level, she was going to choose for me.

It was about a goose. That’s all I can remember. I’m pretty sure that was the extent of my book report too.

So, receiving the book club book (The Host, for craps sake) just brought back that rebellion against having someone else tell me what I have to read right now. I’m already in the middle of The Ayatollah Begs to Differ. I’ve been wanting to read this book for months, caving finally last Friday in Powell’s. My nose is buried in Qom and opium. 

I spend HOURS in the bookstore picking up and putting back down books that I want to read- only because I know I only have so many dollars and so many hours to devote to this escape. Books that made it to receive the crack in their spines have already been deliberated on heavily… crumpled yellow post-its, mixing friends’ comments and media with my own cocktail of passions, former loves and curiosities.

And now this. This 600+ page thorn in my side.

I think I’m just going to tell them it’s about a goose.  

Things I won't Twitter about

  • Dreams that I have over the course of the night- you weren’t there and frankly, neither was I.
  • Issues at Work- not that I don’t have things I would like to say, but I know which side my bread is buttered on.
  • my fingernail length
  • my Mother
  • the weather. I don’t care if it’s Armageddon out there. If you live here, it’s important to you and you know what it’s like. If you don’t live here, you have your own weather to worry about.