It’s frustrating. When I find the book I want I crack it open like to devour it demanding tell me all your everything right now the juicy bits the stuff the meat the what I’m here for. And once I’ve read that part ravenous and quick so I’m dizzy, I’m done and the rest is a let down a slough a mindless turning of pages to say I’ve read the whole thing because that is what you are supposed to do. An unsatisfying process, most of it anyways. I want to sit down, open up, fall in, slowly, with restraint, reading into and between, absorbing. But that is not how my mind works. It’s not a ballad, it’s a wrecking ball.
Blue was like a crazed person. Blue was, to me, a crazed person. He galloped furiously, as if he were being ridden, around and around his five beautiful acres. He whinnied until he couldn’t. He tore at the ground with his hooves. He butted himself against his single shade tree. He looked always and always toward the road down which his partner [Brown, the mare] had gone. And then, occasionally, when he came up for apples, or I took apples to him, he looked at me. It was a look so piercing, so full of grief, a look so human, I almost laughed (I felt too sad to cry) to think there are people who do not know that animals suffer.
-Alice Walker in the essay Am I Blue? 1986
I am so sick of people telling me which animals I am allowed to sympathize with and which are dirty, diseased, and unworthy of humane treatment. That logic is so fucked up.
And I don’t have to write any more about it because Amber already said it in an essay about the mice we fumbled through evicting from our kitchen.
When I am at work without my bike, I am very uncomfortable. Having taken the bus to work today makes me antsy. I guess I need that ride in the morning to be tired enough to sit in this chair all day. And I certainly need it afterwards.
At eighteen, in his dreams he saw himself plodding through jungles, chinning up the ledges of cliffs, wandering through the romantic waste places of the world. No man with any of the juices of boyhood in him has forgotten those dreams. the peculiar thing about Everett Ruess was that he went out and did the things he dreamed about, not simply for two-weeks’ vacation in the civilized and trimmed wonderlands, but for months and years in the very midst of wonder…
Wallace Stegner in Mormon Country
Love this ^, but as a side note: So glad to have read Wild, by Cheryl Strayed before reading Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer. While shopping at Half Price Books last weekend, after searching the Travel section, I asked an employee if they had Into the Wild and he said, “oh, yeah, it’s in Sports Adventure Travel.” Sports Adventure Travel. I guess that is what I’m into. It’s men, men, men, in Sports Adventure Travel. While I am loving this book, and about to read a few Jack London books, I am more than a little disappointed by how male dominated these stories are. I did pick up a few women-centered travel adventure books, from the regular Travel section, though. I’ll have to read them in between the menbooks to remind myself that you don’t have to have a penis to wander the romantic waste places.
Word of the Day for Monday, January 28, 2013
word-hoard \WURD-hawrd\, noun:
A person’s vocabulary.
Word-hoard first occurred in modern English in the 1890s. It was a literal translation of the Old English word wordhord which meant “a store of words.”