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I was lulled into a deep sleep by the hypnotic rhythm of the cat choking delicately on a hair ball beside the bed. In that semi-conscious state, my mind played tricks, and I supposed that the temptress of unease and mystery that guided me to Mr. Sandman's domain was nothing more than the howling wind hurling snow drifts against the window pane. It would not be until the unshod footfall of morning that I would discover the rude, wet truth. For the nonce, I was content that my slumber had been earned by an honest day's work trying to find a can opener, and so I let slip from my hands the updated edition of a Mark Twain novel with all the bad words removed from it. Perhaps it was niggardly to leave off in the middle of a dependent clause, but what can one do?
Tomorrow, there would be adventures anew and the chance to live life on the edge, for not only were all my woolen pants and undershirts in the temporary custody of the laundress, but the battery-powered hand warmers had gone missing during the day's labors of organizing the kitchen drawer that the saved plastic forks and mustard packets from Hunan Happy Fun Time 2 called home. Ever the optimist, I regarded the absent accouterments, not as a hardship, but, rather, an opportunity to experience winter's raw energy the way I imagined Jack London experienced it, if Jack London had been obliged to spend his day returning unwanted gifts at the mall and reading tracts in the food court about how to build a fire.
As it happened, a few days later, I found myself in the last place I looked with someone special before a live fireplace viewing the remake of the sequel to "Gone With the Wind." The flickering flames put us in mind of bellum Atlanta razed by General Sherman's ruthlessness. Yet, all the while, we were comforted by the knowledge that liberties taken with the original plot had been "authorized" by the author's estate.
Why, it's no different than when a cutting-edge director stages Julius Ceasar with the cast decked out in clown suits delivering their lines entirely in falsetto. What's the point of artistic license if it can be suspended for multiple offences?
Speaking of which, I never thought much of the ending of The Great Gatsby, probably because when you read a half-chapter every 4 months, you keep re-reading the same middle passages over and over, forgetting that you have already read them until it's too late, thus, never actually making it to the finish. Before I die (likely, not afterwards), I expect to to get clued in to how it all works out. (Hopefully, reality and my imagination will finally rendezvous, and egg creams will figure prominently in the resolution).
But first, there's that appointment to keep with the aged and bitter Holden Caufield who lives on in the pages of a lite book borrowed from somebody so long ago that I have forgotten who, thereby passing title to me by default. I intend on finishing the story some day, if only I can recall where I put it. No matter. If it's lost for good, I'll just furnish my own ending for the sake of closure.
Everything's derivative, anyway. If you really want to hear about it.
Tomorrow, there would be adventures anew and the chance to live life on the edge, for not only were all my woolen pants and undershirts in the temporary custody of the laundress, but the battery-powered hand warmers had gone missing during the day's labors of organizing the kitchen drawer that the saved plastic forks and mustard packets from Hunan Happy Fun Time 2 called home. Ever the optimist, I regarded the absent accouterments, not as a hardship, but, rather, an opportunity to experience winter's raw energy the way I imagined Jack London experienced it, if Jack London had been obliged to spend his day returning unwanted gifts at the mall and reading tracts in the food court about how to build a fire.
As it happened, a few days later, I found myself in the last place I looked with someone special before a live fireplace viewing the remake of the sequel to "Gone With the Wind." The flickering flames put us in mind of bellum Atlanta razed by General Sherman's ruthlessness. Yet, all the while, we were comforted by the knowledge that liberties taken with the original plot had been "authorized" by the author's estate.
Why, it's no different than when a cutting-edge director stages Julius Ceasar with the cast decked out in clown suits delivering their lines entirely in falsetto. What's the point of artistic license if it can be suspended for multiple offences?
Speaking of which, I never thought much of the ending of The Great Gatsby, probably because when you read a half-chapter every 4 months, you keep re-reading the same middle passages over and over, forgetting that you have already read them until it's too late, thus, never actually making it to the finish. Before I die (likely, not afterwards), I expect to to get clued in to how it all works out. (Hopefully, reality and my imagination will finally rendezvous, and egg creams will figure prominently in the resolution).
But first, there's that appointment to keep with the aged and bitter Holden Caufield who lives on in the pages of a lite book borrowed from somebody so long ago that I have forgotten who, thereby passing title to me by default. I intend on finishing the story some day, if only I can recall where I put it. No matter. If it's lost for good, I'll just furnish my own ending for the sake of closure.
Everything's derivative, anyway. If you really want to hear about it.
"But first, there's that appointment to keep with the aged and bitter Holden Caufield who lives on in the pages of a lite book borrowed from somebody so long ago that I have forgotten who, thereby passing title to me by default." end quote.
ReplyDeleteWow, now I understand how the banksters think.