30 Dec 2013, 11:13pm
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A Look Back

reading sandra beck
An old Selfie of reading John Lavery, who liked this photo very much. His birthday would have been tomorrow.

Also among photos that got hits today on Flickr, one from 2007:

I'd give my eyeteeth for
I’d give my eyeteeth for…

Yes, I kept them.

I’m not sure where they are after the last move, but somewhere in the house.

Do I have an irrational fear of losing such body parts? Must I gather the body parts that fall off? Maybe sentiment could be applied to better use. I can’t scrape back every bit of skin cell but eyeteeth, sure. But books I can sometimes get another copy of…

flower book
There’s no duplicate of a book I made to amuse myself, then updated at a couple later times in childhood. Any speculation on my nested houses?

And is it time again to mark the pages, or should I take an art course first and make a skilled-drawn garden first so I can impress myself at 60 when the skills erodes back from before they came?

[Hallelujah, I don't have to embed in iframes. I can go back to the old default at Flickr. Which is particularly good since scaling images in WordPress is eluding me. Think I got it. I swear I was ahead of the curve with computers in 1992 and have been falling further behind into its wake for the last few years.]

It’s been a glorious few days finding our way to coupledom, solitudes, pottering, work, all the balancing things that holidays are so good at depriving us of. Wonderful to inhale some books, play with the impossibly soft and silly cat.

I suppose it’s the time of the year to reflect on this year only but for lists of favourite books in the year, they wouldn’t necessarily be from this year. I tend to be a year or few behind the front list. Although spring 2013 seems years ago already, a look back at only this year is kind of like looking back at your own shoulder instead of past it.

Even among books I’ve read over the last couple months, I’d be remiss not to mention near the top: Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl: Written by Herself, by Harriet Ann Jacobs, 1813-1897, and The Man Who Was Thursday: A Nightmare by G. K. Chesterton (1908). I’d like to run my eyes over titles back to a year ago and see what pops out. But not tonight. I’ve got some sleep that needs doing and only I can do it.

Until we see one another next, or first, as Lisa Bonchek Adams tweeted:

And humour, and wisdom, and insight and a good dose of neutral. Can’t let a day pass without a good portion of that. It’s nutritive, it is.

Quote: “I know it’s Rossetti! I love poetry, just not in the station. We’re here to either get on trains, get off them or work in different shops. Is that clear?” ~ Inspector Gustav in Hugo

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