Crooked Finger (crookedfingers) wrote,
Crooked Finger
crookedfingers

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few people are able to hear the truth

It is 9:11 AM Sunday morning in the flow of existence. A cold dark rainy day. It is suppose to rain all week. I was hoping to get pictures of the tulips this week, but I do not like to takes pictures in the rain. When one takes pictures of tulips it is nice to take them when it is warm and sunny outside. Maybe this year I won't be able to take pictures of the tulips. All things in time come to an end. We are here only for a moment.

Carol and I were up around 5 o'clock AM this morning. We went to bed early last night. I usually sleep seven hours and then I am ready to face the firing squad. When we got up I warmed up coffee made yesterday and then sat in the living room dozing till 7 o'clock AM. I then ate a pig-in-the blanket and wrote in my paper diary.

Carol and I drove downtown to Reader's World Bookstore. Carol wanted to pick up the new Anne Hillerman novel "Rock With Wings" (A Leaphorn, Chee & Manuelito Novel). She also bought a children's book and a Sunday Detroit Free Press newspaper. I picked up the new Francine Prose novel, "Lovers At The Chameleon Club, Paris 1932". I recently found used Prose's novel, "A Changed Man". Awhile back I read Francine Prose's novel, "The Blue Angel". After I read Prose's novel "The Blue Angel" I read her novel "Goldengrove". I have also in our book collection Prose's, "Primitive People".

http://www.theguardian.com/books/2009/jul/25/goldengrove-francine-prose-review

Carol left this morning to attend church with a friend. After the church service the church is having a birthday brunch for Carol's friend who just had her 90th birthday.

I have been thinking of going back to bed since I have not been sleeping soundly lately.

Last night I mainly watched television and went to bed early. Yesterday I mainly read from a book titled, "B & Me: A True Story of Literary Arousal" by J. C. Hallman.

Well not much else to report. It looks like I will have a quiet week. I have nothing to do but read my books, write in my diary, and watch birds at our bird feeder. Existence keeps on speeding by.

". . . The image of a grown man failing to arouse himself with a book is funny, sure, but more important, it underscores that the common denominator of good writing is passionate incursions into those regions of human experience we refuse to discuss in any other precinct of human discourse. The subject matter changes, but the task is always the same: careful attention given to that which is mostly left folded, creased, hidden. That might mean anything from the slums of London, to the frustrating abstractions of cosmology, to the uncertain mind of a fretful critic." pg. 38 J. C. Hallman "B & Me"

http://www.nytimes.com/2014/04/20/books/review/lovers-at-the-chameleon-club-paris-1932-by-francine-prose.html?_r=0
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