Some people just have no appreciation for my ability to adapt.
It’s Adopt-a-Shelter-Dog Month.
Oh, come on, you knew I’d go for this one. Seriously, there are marvelous dogs (and cats) in shelters all over the world that just need love, food, exercise, and expensive vets. In return, a dog will give you an alarm system, a body guard,, a warm body to cuddle, and unconditional adoration. Best deal in the world.
Go to Petfinders.com or your local shelter. That’s where Milton, Veronica, Mona, and Lyle came from (Bernie and Lucy came from the pound, Rosie was a gift one of my classes got from the pound [Melissa Copher, I keep losing your e-mail address, but I’ll never forget you]), and through that website you can even search by breed and your area.
Don’t do it for the dogs (although they deserve it), do it for you.
Have you ever re-read a book you loved and found it less? Not the ones you loved when you were a kid and find wanting now that you’re an adult, a book you read for the first time lately and then went back for a reread. I’m having that experience, and it’s weird. It’s not as though I liked those books for the plots (although the plots were good), I liked the characters, too, but now I find my mind wandering and not finishing. Yet I’ve returned to books I read twenty years ago and still found them compelling.
What makes one book re-readable and another one not?
Oh, and what did you read this week?
This thing is huge. I’ve got so many plots running here with so many people, it’s Game of Thrones with demons. Actually, I’ve never seen Game of Thrones, I just know what I’ve read about it, so maybe Dickens is a better comparison. The odd thing is, this time I know the major plot, it’s the details that are kicking my butt, which is the opposite of the usual progress. Also I keep losing pieces that I’ve written and put somewhere.
Writing books is hard, she whined.
Anyway, it may be quieter than usual in here this week because I am writing and then on Tuesday getting a houseguest (YAY) so you’ll have to talk amongst yourselves. Or whatever. Good Book Thursday and Cherry Saturday will go up as usual, however. Now I must go finish painting the floor in the guestroom. One damn thing after another.
So how’s by you?
Today is Random Acts of Poetry Day.
I think you’re supposed to write poetry on post-its and photos and leave it stickied or scattered around, but that seems to me to be self-serving littering. Let’s face it, most people are not good poets. I, for example, suck at poetry. Love it, can’t write it. But oh, do I love it.
Robert Frost was evidently a bastard to live with, but he wrote beautiful poetry. Every place I’ve ever lived, I’ve painted or posted my favorite lines of his on a wall (it’s from “Two Tramps at Mudtime”):
Only where love and need are one,
And the work is play for mortal stakes,
Is the deed ever really done
For Heaven and the future’s sakes.
The whole poem is incredibly beautiful, but it’s those last lines that gave me my life philosophy on work: if I can’t be passionate about what I need to do, I need to do something I’m passionate about instead. Yes, I know that’s impossible for most people, I’m just happy it’s worked out for me twice.
So how are you going to commit random acts of poetry? Posting some here is a non-littering method. I’m going to try to figure out where in my practically wall-less off I can put those four lines (there are walls, there are just windows and doors in 90% of them). Maybe on a Post-It . . .
The seasons are changing. Cuddle up with a good book (and some pumpkin custard).
[Advance notice: Trust Me On This will be $1.99 on Bookbub (and every place else) on Nov. 14. Why anybody would want a decades old book, I have no idea, but hey, it’ll be two bucks.]
You know those songs you sing along to and hate yourself for because the lyrics are about awful people but the music is catchy?
That’s how I feel about the Pina Colada song.