From bad to worse

(for posting and book-time...)
So we've had a dry spell, apparently, brought on by more Ethan-studying (hence computer-monopolizing) and then my parents coming to visit for a few days which tends to suck out most of my recreational time aside from sleeping. It was a nice visit though, especially since I can't go home much any more with great ease, except of course for the timing - during Ethan's last exam and then the new Harry Potter. Of course I went to buy it from 57th Street Books because my mother believes in supporting the local, independent bookstore which is a good cause, certainly, but to think I could have bought it for $15 less at Barnes and Noble is slightly painful. But then again how often do I actually pay for books? So I suppose the average cost of my reading this summer is around $2 a books right now, less if you think about the things that Ethan reads also. Still more expensive than a free trip to the library, but there's a time-cost there and a small selection. Despite the other distractions this week I did pick up A Time to Kill (good airplane reading, perhaps) and something else which I naturally can't think of at the moment. And the Dorrie book which I was so terribly excited about has mysteriously disappeared. I suppose when I saw Call of the Wild I put it down to dig in the box and never picked it up again.

So. Walden still trucks along (it's finally winter - there's hope of a end!) and I've learned about the delights and the less-delightful of communist Moscow in the 60s (people apparently have really wonderful public athletic facilities that no one uses, and small not modernized apartments. Unsurprising - this happens in non-communist countries too, after all, although apparently crime is rare and somewhat odd - like stealing windshield wiper blades. I suppose it makes more sense than hubcaps?). I managed to sneak in Murder on the Orient Express, my first Agatha Christie ever in print after a childhood of seeing a bunch of Poirot on Mystery or maybe Masterpiece Theatre (probably Mystery though), and it was sadly disappointing. I prefer Rex Stout, as it turns out, with the massive Nero Wolfe to steer things along. I suppose Archie makes for a livelier narrator. I also spent a few minutes with Hoyle Up-To-Date checking out rules for Euchre (when with relatives, we play cards) and then momentarily fascinated by the complicated layout of the Oh Hell section which details a bidding strategy that I suppose I really ought to learn.

And of course Harry Potter. I really feel that I ought to be nominated for sainthood or something (which I'm sure precludes me from the office) for going out Saturday morning to get it for Ethan so I could leave with my parents and let him sit around and read all morning without us. I didn't get my first crack at it until Saturday night after my parents had left to go to sleep in their hotel (one chapter). Sunday was mildly better but not by much - I think I made it up to Chapter 4 while Ethan barreled ahead to somewhere in the middle. Monday (haha!) I managed to wake up much earlier and sneak it out of the bedroom for an hour of clandestine reading, and Monday night Ethan stayed up to 2 to finish which meant Tuesday it was all mine. And over quickly. But that's restraint! I mean granted I had parents to occupy my time (mostly) but in the dual-possibility-reading-time I (mostly) ceded to Ethan who, it's true, has had a pretty hard and stressful couple of weeks. I wonder what my holy day will be. :}

I found the writing style less disappointing than I had in The Half-Blood Prince which either is due to its improvement or that my expectations have been subconsciously lowered. And some of the plot points were unexpected although others were not and one particular thing that Ethan and I had really hoped would not happen did. So that's too bad. The very last chapter seemed more like a "I really don't want to keep writing this stuff, will this make you happy?" sort of chapter than a really necessary one although I tend alternate mindsets about how much I like things wrapped up at the end of books or movies. People sometimes complain about directors leaving the end open for a sequel but I wonder if you can't also chalk that up to room for imagination.

It's the week of updates. Next week upgrades?

It's been hot, which means that the computer is supposed to stay off. And it's been a hard week of studying for Ethan which means when the computer's on, he's using it. Which is only fair, seeing as how mine spends its summer cozily wrapped up in a nice padded case out of the light. I am sad to report that Ethan picked up The Coffee Trader himself last week and came to essentially the same conclusions as I did - all we really cared about was knowing who exactly was out to get whom. Fortunately I had some delightful finds this week - Call of the Wild (without a cover) and one of the Dorrie books - an early chapter book (I think) about a child witch that's part of a series that I read all of in third grade - it was a class project and we wrote to the author (and she wrote back, naturally, I mean what kind of woman wouldn't respond to 44 adorable letters from 8-year-olds?) and it was fun. But I don't remember them at all. So I'm excited about that one. I think I'll save it for Thursday (Ethan gets a story the night before his exams). But I have started on one I picked up a few weeks ago which is a non-fiction profile of 12 major world cities (none in America) that was written in the early 70s, as a follow up to countries of the world series from the 30s which makes for some pretty amusing comparisons (I love hearing about how modern Paris is, with only 48% of houses having their own bathtubs). It definitely appeals to my sense of humor and my fondness for nonfiction writing and my amateurish interest in the world.

Make pedaling, not books

I was riding south today on the path back from beach staring mostly at the ground just in front of my tire or even with eyes closed, holding on and trying to will the time to pass quickly so I could unlock the gate and the door and set my bike into the rack and climb the stairs and open the doors and collapse into a chair or couch or even the floor just after I feebly attempted to brush off the collected sand from my legs and arms and face and anywhere else I could without scandalizing the neighbors. Really I just need to strip naked and go nuts with a hose but there's no hose and I still have enough propriety to avoid total nudity in public. If I ever plan far enough ahead I suppose I could wear a bathing suit or something under my clothes. Once I got to McCormick place I realized the foolishness of my plan to ride all the way home - the ride up had been easy and I dislike having to take the bus home so I planned to leave early to make it back before full dark which has been the primary excuse of prevention thus far - but we had few people today and so no subs for a while and then one, sort of, for a bit longer, and then none again and I was tired. My quads were actually burning as I creaked up the non-hill around the convention center, just waiting for a jogger to whiz past me. But past the museums there's no giving up - I don't know how to get back on the bus that far south and I couldn't slow down because of the threat of darkness (already cutting it close). In some kind of attempt to give up (while still going) I finally looked up, all the way, and out at the lake and realized that in that moment with the even cotton clouds and the sun mostly down and the lake mostly placid and the strange sort of reflection from top to bottom and bottom to top that you could almost not tell where the horizon was. It was shocking for that instant before I focused and saw it, a slight variation between the greener lake and purpler sky but so so close together it was amazing - without glasses I wouldn't have been able to see it at all. The surprise held me in mental suspension momentarily, enough to conquer the not-hill and coast pathetically slowly down the other side, before the monotony and frustration of pedaling set back in. I looked up only once again, 15 minutes later and marveled at the darkened sky holding the same properties still as the water. And I saw ducklings. Maybe this ride was a good idea - I'll know tomorrow when I try to get out of bed.

the never ending Pond

I am reading Walden. Still. It is a still sort of reading and still sort of book also - in the evenings on top of the sheets with the fan sucking in the cool air or the air conditioner buzzing away and hopefully not making my nose stuffy by morning. Even with the fan or the ac it's just barely cool and unhumid so that any extraneous movement is a poor decision. I lie curled loosely on a side or on my back (Walden is a wonderfully small paperback, perfect for supine reading or taking in a purse for the bus) only eyes moving and occasionally fingers. The moralizing of Economy drove me nuts but the promise of the american classic pulled me through - Visitors was better and I made peace with Thoreau by the time he extolled the virtue of beans as the green bean is, I have attested, my favorite food. It's unclear which sort of bean he's referring to but I hardly believe he would have grown so many bushels of black or pinto or lima - who would want them? I picked Walden up from Powells when it was still regularly cold and it has sat on my bookshelf (serving as a bed-side table) for months now, picked at slowly like corn stuck between my teeth. I've put it aside (back to the bookshelf) to cover it with something more tantalizing, more thrilling, but eventually I come back to it. It's a book that for no particular reason I'm determined to not like which begs the questions of why I keep reading it. I think at this point the intrinsic literary value (critically acclaimed!) has exhausted itself. I just want to know what he will arrogantly and lovingly discuss next.

This could have turned out better, I think

So despite my best intentions or at least my mediocre intentions I didn't manage to get any work done yesterday until about nine in the evening due mostly to my delightful morning with Ethan (it's always so exciting when we actually go on a date) and lunch and then finishing a book and a too-long nap and then dinner and gun-building. Yes, I now have my pathetic 5-lb weights to haul around and keep the gun show running a bit longer. I really need something a bit heavier but the 20-lb ones Ethan has are too much. But the moral of the story is the finished book - finally I regress back to indulgent sloth (is there another kind?) and retreat to my bedroom with the last twenty pages of The Coffee Trader by David Liss, my most recently began Powell's exploit. The book was fine, generally, not the sort that really grabs you with its wit or language or even characters. Mostly I kept reading out my overwhelming desire to know how stories end (this unfortunately applies to really bad movies also) and curiosity about the level of intrigue. The story is set in 17th century Amsterdam (also interesting to me for familial reasons now) which was a remarkably free society for early Europe and follows a Jewish Portuguese refugee (from the Inquisition) who is a futures trader who has been recently ruined and tries to scheme his way back to wealth through the new commodity of coffee. I do have some passive economic and business interests and am a sucker for historical novels (although that phase mostly ended when I turned 12) but really it was the question of deception that tied the novel together. Miguel never knows whom he can trust or should trust and as the reader there isn't any additional information. That hook was enough, although it took about a week to read the whole thing which tells you the worm wasn't the freshest wriggling sort of animal. I'm glad it's done - I can't quite decide what to pick up next.