Books! Books! Books!

 Checked this outa the library today. Written by the mustachioed James Mustich, in 2018. It has a quote by Virginia Woolf:

The only advice, indeed, that one person can give another about reading, is to take no advice, to follow your own instincts, to use your own reason, to come to your own conclusions. If this is agreed between us, then I feel at liberty to put forward a few ideas and suggestions because you will not allow them to fetter that independence which is the most important quality that a reader can possess. - How Should One Read a Bookalls

At 2:30 pm today I was to be at my book group at the Upper Moreland Public Library to discuss THEY MAY NOT MEAN TO BUT THEY DO by Cathleen Shein (sp) who is divorced from New Yorker film critic David Denby before they got rid of him.

I could not finish that damn book. Woke up late and could not get out of bed to read the book. Instead I had a very vivid dream about watching someone being hanged on a train, but then they were saved by a man who ran over to save him.

That's called a nightmare. Every time I read two three grafs of the book, my eyes closed and I fell asleep. This behavior went on for six hours.

The book was about getting older, getting forgetful, getting dementia, getting Alzheimer's. It took 200 pages for patriarch Aaron Bergman to finally die from Alzheimer's disease. He was very witty and even while dying made some hilarious references such as find me some corned beef hash.

What I wanna emphasize is the difficulty of reading the book. As my eyes started to close, I began thinking of all sorts of different things. It was like falling down, say, Niagara Falls, and not being able to stop myself.

It felt tragic!

Walked in late. The room was filled with people! This never happened before. I didn't tell a soul that I hadn't finished the book but managed to p'pate in the discussion.

When I was finished, I drove over to the Barnes and Noble shopping center, book in my backpack, cruised along, trying to find a SPACE all by itself, which I did, and then ordered a meal!here, thother I just finished now.

My fingers touch the touchpad and words skip all over. Not gonna fix things.

In the middle of the night, I wrote three poems on my upstairs computer that behaves.

One was about Aunt Ethel, not to be confused with Ethelred the wise king of England, another was about baking a whole wheat challah, and the third was about buying a pair of Red Nikes, as worn by the champeen runner of the world.

Point being, that it's okay for me to have all them books on the husband's side of the bed. In addition to 1,000 books, something else came in: Your Duck is My Duck. Such terrible titles! And these writers are famous, and I'm sitting here, in my PJs made in China, my warm blue diabetic socks, listening to WXPN's countdown of 100 best songs from the 1980s, and ....

Talk soon, Marce!

Oh, I had some ideas to write about:

Letters to Dr Foxhall

Can't remember the other 22.

We've got the color cover for the Compass.

Something like this, played to the tune of, oh, Appalachian Spring by Copland.