Good at being alone

This week finds me in an interesting state of mind — able to take all of the roiling emotions of the past year or so, and not exactly boil them down per se, but essentially taste each discrete element and not let any one of them overpower the rest. I've got the sadness with the hopefulness, the self-loathing with the recovering esteem, the loneliness with the placidity and a growing sense of self-confidence. I wonder if this is what they call "acceptance." Whatever it is, I got here by myself. I wonder if I, or it, will stay.

"There will be no miracles here." And that can be a howl, an exhortation or just a flat observation. It's up to you. (Or me.)

So tonight's playlist calls for some instrumental-y tracks, all the better to non-judge you by. (Or iron shirts by. That's what I listened to them while doing the other night.)

First, in other news, I found a book, or author, I just love. It was pointed out to me not long ago by a female fellow-reader that, despite our voluminous reading lists, there was remarkably little intersection between the two. I took it to mean few female authors on my part, so I picked up Ellen Gilchrist's "The Courts of Love" at the thrift book store. I hadn't heard of Gilchrist before — despite her National Book Award — but by golly, the Washington Post calls her "a national treasure" right there on the cover. I could not resist. Anyway, at a buck the price was right.

I would, lacking any probably better comparisons in my reader's C.V., compare her to John Barth. But there is something distinctly humane I sensed about Gilchrist that Barthy-boy seems to lack. I can't put my finger on it; anyway, despite some quirky po-mo kind of silliness that usually puts me off, I found myself, for better or worse, caring deeply about these characters; so much so, I read the last few pages through moist eyes. (What can I say — my life has made me a softy. These days, I'm practically liable to weep at a well-produced toilet tissue commercial.) I'm through the novella, and into the short stories now. That Nora Jane. Kid reminds me of my son. Awww.

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--> Archangel, Burial
--> A Paw in My Face, The Field