From Diane Setterfield's The Thirteenth Tale

People disappear when they die. Their voices, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living mempry of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continut to exist. We can rediscover them. Their humour, their tone of voice, their moods. Through the written word they can anger you or make you happy. They can comfort you. They can perplex you. They can alter you. All this, even though they are dead. Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic.

--Diane Setterfield



Tuesday, March 25, 2008

my life consists of waking up late and getting to work in dirty clothes about 30 minutes late. every day. Posture be hanged, I am hunched with stress that you may be tempted to call me "Quazi" the next time we meet. It's okay, I'll understand. Then Stress stress stress at work and rush home to get the car to scott and then go with him and sit around with no computer/ internet/ anything to do/ sometimes dinner. then home and bed. all this leaves little time for productive pursuits like laundry and cooking and cleaning... thus the dirty clothes each day... if you iron them, they don't look dirty and febreeze helps them not smell dirty, HA fooled you didn't i. and showers are a sometimes thing. ew. that's gross... but i appreciate them so much more when I do take one...
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1 comment:

Ruth said...

I'm with ya babe. Sounds like we all need to take a trip to Hawaii.

March 31, 2008 at 9:01 AM

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