Art is what makes us human.

Go here, my people:
http://www.yarnharlot.ca/blog/archives/2008/09/28/dear_mr_harper.html#comments

And then, if you're as furious as I am (and if you agree with the Yarn Harlot, as I so frequently do), go here and say so to the man in question:
pm@pm.gc.ca

"Art is an effort to create, beside the real world, a more humane world."
- Andre Maurois

Why I Love Living Here, Part 1

Because this view is three blocks from my door.

A little light relief

Did you hear the one about the dyslexic agnostic?

He lay awake wondering if his dog exists.

Like Heidi's Grandfather

I want to be a hermit.

Oh yes, I want to live all by myself with a possible dog (but not my current dog, who peed on the floor of our rented house today) and a stack of books and some knitting (but not my current knitting, which I can't finish because I don't have the right sized needles to knit the sleeves) and a car (but not my current car because the motor that makes the warm air magically come in and keep your feet from freezing broke and cost me $250 to fix). I'll keep my kid, cause he's wonderful, but if he could just go somewhere and be quiet for a while that would be great.

I don't want a job (especially not my current job, where people just expect me to magically know things and at which I am both clueless and, today, not very good) and I DEFINITELY don't want a phone and I just want to sit and be alone for a while.

I am reading Peter Mayle and a book written by the mother of one of my students (it was really good) and I just finished some of the trash reading I was talking about earlier which included a freaking happy ending and Love. I hate Love.

But if my life were a book then Love is what I would get, and I wouldn't be able to be a hermit, because people always arrive in books to make the hermit come back to life. And I don't want to come back to life. I just want to read.

I want to be a hermit.

I am Reading Trash, and I Don't Care.

I think that title says it all, don't you?

The other day I got an email from my cousin (hi Court!) who said that sometimes she reads lousy books just to have something to do that doesn't require a lot of thought. Well, I'm here to tell you that I do exactly the same thing. I'm a little self conscious about it, being that I'm keeping track of everything I read and all that, but it is the truth.

Sometimes I read trash.

There are limits, of course. Not too long ago I tried to read a book by this Debbie Macomber character -- a book about knitting, no less! -- but I just could not choke it down. The writing was so bad, the plot was predictable, and the characters were wooden. How do people get away with this stuff? When I think of all the great writers I've read over the years who never had a thing published, it makes me a little crazy.

For example, the guy I went to university with who wrote that if there was one hour left until the end of the world, he would spend that hour waiting for a bus. Why? Because the time passes very slowly, and you're always glad when the bus arrives.

Life is not fair, and that's a fact.

Parlay Voo?

I have 35 students in my grade 8 French class.

I have 26 desks.

Nothing good can come from this.

On the plus side, I'm all moved in, and I even found the little notebook where I keep track of the book list. September 1 saw book #147, "When You Are Engulfed In Flames" by David Sedaris. I love reading books of essays, especially when I don't have the attention span to keep track of characters in a work of fiction.

Speaking of works of fiction, I need to plan something for tomorrow (because 9 hours at work today just WASN'T ENOUGH).

That is all.