So the server farm (google) must be in Oregon.
I'm reading A Three Dog Life - memoir recommended by Stephen King. Left 3 other books behind in the bookstore for this one. Delicious.
Amazing how my writing takes so quickly on the tone of my reading. Like speaking to someone from another land, after few drinks. You pick up the accent and seem foolish to those not in on the subconscious joke.
I am also reading:
- Tipping Point - Malcolm Gladwell
- Freakanomics - Steven Levitt and Stephen Durbin
- Dogs Don't Bite When a Growl will Do - some dog people
- The Woman Who Laughed at God, a History of the Jewish People - Jonathan Kirsch
- Good to Great - Jim Collins
- Mindful Knitting - Tara Jon Manning
- A Woman's Journey to God - Joan Borysenko
- If the Buddah Got Stuck - Charlotte Kasl
Just finished the last - well, skimmed the ending chapters. Love this writer (Charlotte Kasl) but she is best in small doses. Something like Karen Armstrong, A History of God.
Reading as truffles.
I told my lover tonight of this blogspace. It came back to me as a small regret later. Not that I don't want him here, but as evidence of my struggle to be in a "real" couple again. I gave something up - some privacy perhaps.
I asked him today what he would miss most about living alone. "Walking around naked." he replied easily, once he decided to be really honest. He's such a guy.
I think I'll miss having time to do whatever I want. As in not having any sense of obligation to do anything.
In spite of my whining to myself, being alone was cool, when it happened. Living with three kids didn't give me much true time to just Be. But some.
And maybe I won't so much miss my own time, as the life I had - and this moving in and making a new home is forcing me out of limbo. As long as I didn't unpack I could pretend that I really hadn't moved on without ... without those very large muscle groups.
They moved me constantly, the "big kids" who, after all, aren't so big. They were under foot and skin and sinew. They were - are - taking up large regions of the grey mass that gropes for words tonight.