I cooked vegetable stir-fry for my dinner tonight. It was made up of mostly onions, then spinach, tomatoes, and tofu I brought back with me, all thrown together with peanut oil, oyster sauce, and soy sauce. It was surprisingly excellent. I ate it while reading one of the ten books I took out from the library today.
“Humanity has advanced, when it has advanced, not because it has been sober, responsible and cautious, but because it has been playful, rebellious, and immature.”—Tom Robbins, Still Life With Woopecker (via hellookristi)
I really should be doing real work, but I can’t stop thinking about how much I would love to take a course about the history of mermaids. We’d start with the Greek sirens and the legend of Melusine, thence to Hans Christian Anderson, and on to modern day with Disney’s Ariel and Mark Siegel’s Sailor Twain.
Oh, there is so much I would do in a class like that.
“Writing a novel is a tiny candle in a dark, swirling world. It brings light and warmth and hope to the lucky few who, against insufferable odds and despite a juggernaut of irritations, find themselves in the right place to hold it. Blow it out, so our eyes will not be drawn to its power. Extinguish it so we can get some sleep. I plan to quit writing novels myself, sometime in the next hundred years.”
Celebrating another human being’s death makes me uncomfortable, no matter who is dead. We haven’t won anything, this is not a “great day to be an American,” it’s not a reason to party. I am glad bin Laden was killed, because it’s a relief that we don’t have to worry about what he’ll do in the future, and it’s closure for the Americans who have suffered, but this outpouring of raucous glee is sickening, and it is everywhere.
When I get home, the first thing I’m going to do is have a long bath, with bubbles, candles, all that cliché deliciousness. My body has hurt all over for the past two weeks, and my mind keeps coming back to that gorgeous tub we have in my bathroom at home.