All it took was buying one, just one, The New York Times. It’s not about on line reading, it’s about the dirty newsprint and the cheap paper and folding and reading the continuing story on page …
This was my “treat” on a Saturday night after a long day at work, there was an article on the iPhone 6 that caught my eye and I chose to buy this for my Saturday evening “read fest.” I read the entire paper, well, I did skip a few, but not many. I read the front page, the Arts & Leisure, and, feast of all feasts, the obituaries.
I LOVE the obituaries in The New York Times. I told my funeral director (in anticipation and obtaining information only folks…), when it was stated, “you will want an obituary,” that “I don’t! I don’t want an obituary, I want people to say, Hey, I haven’t seen Kathi in awhile, I wonder what she is up to!” However, I have changed my mind. I want my obituary, but I want it in The New York Times. If you haven’t read a New York Times obituary, I suggest you run out this morning and buy a copy and just read the obits. They will absolutely surprise you. These writers of the New York Times obituaries are fantastic! Phenomenal! They should be writing the blogs and the books!
New York. New York. If I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere…. 🙂
Heather murdered Susan Quartermaine, her love for Alan unrequited. No one remembers, Susan’s ghost disappears, yet there are those of us who remember, we remember details others have forgotten.
It’s only a story, but in real life how many times has this happened, and what do you really know? What did the killer get away with?
My daughter in law pointed out an article she found in this month’s Oprah magazine. Inspired, I tapped into http://www.oprah.com to find the article. Page 3 of Paolo Coelho’s words of forward on his 25th anniversary edition is very inspiring and it is my hope that we, as writers, can take this to heart and truly believe in ourselves.
My grandparents are celebrating their anniversary today. They were married in 1925. Cheers to those who have passed beyond, we raise our glasses, we hope you are pleased with us.
For the writer, keys can mean everything, or nothing. I am currently reading a book I’d extracted from the library’s “give a donation, please, and help yourself” pile. The title is “All is Vanity” and it’s about a woman who decided to quit her job to write the great American novel, which is more meaningful as she repaints her world, and avoids everything but breakfast conversation with her character she has created. I’m simplifying, of course. It’s really a great story, the author is very creative (I left the book in the car, can’t remember the name), and she has stirred some creativity in me, except for the keyboard, which would be the heroine’s perfect excuse to set aside her book writing, again.
It all started yesterday, when I was sitting, as usual, tippy-tapping out my life on the computer. Well, not exactly tapping my life out, but tapping through a life. Looking through my emails, with nothing but ads and spam, and those beautifully written paragraphs by my blog friend, Brenda (the kitchen drawer). Quite “minding” my business, I hit “reply” and started typing and my (external) keyboard decided to not register with the computer (it’s a laptop, the “real” keyboard an added bonus so I wouldn’t have to conform). Unplug/replug, unplug/replug, okay last time, unplug/replug. Deep sigh. Blow the dust off the mini keyboard that is here, toss the standard keyboard, and wait for a new day.
Will I buy another keyboard? Maybe. Or maybe I’ll just conform.
Miss Cathers published this book in 1918 and now I know why it is a classic. I was introduced to the book when I was (I think) in 7th grade (or younger) by my Lutheran pastor, Myron Jaeneke (je’ neck e). There was something magical about his name, something holy, that a child looked up to, his flowing robes, the thin hand that went to God and he gave benediction every Sunday. But during the week, he sported flannel shirts and baseball caps, and (I learned as an adult) was known as “Mike.” I digress. Poor pastor, unlike Jim Burden of My Antonia, this classic was wasted on me, I quickly lost interest. But I discovered recently the book again, and when I found it on sale at the library (3/$1), I knew it was mine. For those of you who have a love of classics, a love of words, this is a good read, and a good one to have on your shelf (no matter how you come by it). If you scroll back two blog posts, you will find a narrative called “Jim Burden.” That is a direct quote from the book, as well as the next, Jim’s description of his and Lena’s visit to the theater:
The heartless world which Marguerite re-entered with Varville had never been so glittering and reckless as on the night when it gathered in Olympe’s salon for the fourth act….I remember…men played with piles of gold, and a staircase down which the guests made their entrance…Marguerite descended the staircase with Varville; such a cloak, such a fan, such jewels–and her face! One knew at a glance how it was with her, When Armand, with the terrible words, “Look, all of you, I owe this woman nothing!” flung the gold and bank-notes at the half-swooning Marguerite, Lena cowered beside me and covered her face with her hands…
When we reached the door of the theater, the streets were shining with rain…I walked slowly out into the country part of the town where I lived. The lilacs were all blooming in the yards, and the smell of them after the rain, of the new leaves and the blossoms together, blew into my face with a sort of bitter sweetness. I tramped through the puddles and under the showery trees, mourning for Marguerite Gauthier as if he had died only yesterday, sighing with the spirit of 1840, which had sighed so much, and which had reached me only that night, across long years and several languages, through the person of an infirm old actress.”
Now I need to find a first edition, the book deserves that, in my collection (but a paperback is all that is really necessary, it’s about words, not about hardbound first editions, isn’t it?)
I was something that lay under the sun and felt it, like the pumpkins, and I did not want to be anything more. I was entirely happy. Perhaps we feel like that when we die and become a part of something entire, whether it is sun and air, or goodness and knowledge…that is happiness; to be dissolved into something complete and great. When it happens to one, it comes as naturally as sleep.
It's All About the Journey 
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