attempts to focus on a furry day

Rule to add to the list of on dating: never date anyone who doesn't hold the deed to their own ego

Finished a book yesterday called The Terra-Cotta Dog by an Italian man named Andrea Camilleri. What do they call those things? Police procedurals, that's it. Stupid stupid name. It was wonderful and thoughtful and human and there was food food food - no recipes and no gastronomic over-indulgences, just a man who likes to eat and who hates publicity and who is very happy with the routine of his much to the consternation of at least one woman - i like that one of the women in his life is attached without being pathetic. We'll see if the positive feelings continue throughout the next few books. Oh, did I mention that there are more? Yes, there are more. There are shows on Italian television. Happy.

The brains of the story don't show themselves right away, which is kind of nice. By the end, I was totally impressed. Made going back to Hamilton kind of depressing, like going out to lunch and having wonderful conversation with one friend, knowing that dinner will be with someone intriguing but temporary and pointless. Nothing life changing. I do tend to find the ones who will totally fuck up my perception of the world. It's the smallest changes that do the most to change things on a large level. Perhaps that explains my historic pattern of choosing companions whose world views are so drastically different from my own. It is easier to maintain a sense of myself in the face of overwhelming challenge. Then again, it is easier to stay the same when no change is even considered because it is coming from such an opposing force.

The Italian translation works well. I have no idea how it reads in the original. I think I will get around to learning Italian just for the pleasure of reading these and much by Eco in the original. Now that I have the time and energy to do this, well, life is full and good for me. It is what happens when I finally get around to letting go. There is not much in my life than can come back to haunt me that cannot be dealt with somehow. Not that I want to deal with any of it at all ever, mind, I mean, that would be stupid, yeah?

I am again remembering how much of knowing me is in knowing my words. Not authorial intent, not purpose or meaning or symbol. The knowing is in the reading, in the rhythm, the words, the flow of my mind as I let it loose through my fingers. It is a part of me desiring to be a woman of action, words are action, the more carefully I consider them, the more true the action becomes. It is not fair that one who will not read my words will not know me, it is a potentially unreasonable demand to make, though if the intention is to know me, the demand is a necessary one. It is not as though everyone does not place such demands on others. Some demand patience, some an air purifier, some need attention to phone calls and emails and drunken ramblings that repeat themselves with regularity. It is telling, those demands. A tell that I have no need to investigate. I'll leave that to people who analyze relationships, not to the ones who have them.