Sort of sad and draggy today. ( Collapse )
Before you scoff at my taste in music (although it deserves a full serving of scoff), by the way, I have to tell you that my "Current Music" selection always makes me think of that week I was in Havana, because that's what was playing on the TV that night I sat in my hotel room and decompressed instead of going out with our group. And God, was I glad to hear some English. So it's more than just a crappy Ricky Martin song, you know? I really wish I could find the journal I kept--I tried to write a nonfiction account and kept slipping into bullshit Rebecca-style "The hotel stands so faintly in my memory" crap. ("There were days that spring when I would begin to wonder if Havana had only been a dream." Oh, honey, you can do better than that.) And I would really, really like to write about the whole experience--I wonder if it's because The Lovely Emily and I watched the first half of Lost in Translation before "Six Feet Under" came on. Because I think what I want to say about Havana has a little of that feel to it, only with a lot less moping and 85% fewer panties.
Still working on the m15m book. Have talked to Ginger; she says August is pretty dead, so we won't be talking to American publishers until September (so yes, it will be published here in the States; we just don't know when or by whom yet). Mom came home with an upset stomach, so she and Sister Girl and I (I was up last night with a tummyache myself. Hey, Em: Mom feels really bad about the tiramisu. Apparently everyone at dinner last night hated it, and it was just bad tiramisu) sacked out in the den and watched ROTK. Mom hadn't seen it since that one time in the theater and was still asking all kinds of questions, like, "Is he the king's son?" and "Why is she dying?" and "Is the Van Helsing guy dead?" I hadn't taken too many notes on Two Towers or Return of the King because that was the afternoon that the cat bit the everliving goddamn shit out of my hand (it's healed up pretty nicely, by the way), so it didn't really hurt to sit there, the three of us, and eat leftover chocolate cake and sort-of bond in this miasma of estrogen ("Wake me up when Viggo comes back, kids").
(I need to figure out what to do about this teeth-grinding problem I seem to have inherited from my father. I've suspected that I do it for a long time now, but after sharing a room with me in New Orleans The Lovely Emily confirmed it.)
Anyway. I'm almost done with my Alcott collection, and then it's on to either A Long Fatal Love Chase or Alias Grace, depending on how sucked-in I can afford to get. I'm also reading through some scanned e-texts on Victorian London, from Victorian London, which are hell on my eyes but there you go.