Some Writing Madman Fall Death Eternal

I picked up the books lying around my room today–some were buried beneath clothes or between the bed and the wall, taking a breather from the endless bed-nightstand-bag-floor cycle that designates the paths of my fresher books (as opposed to the stale ones, collecting dust on the shelf). These haven't yet been relegated back to the bookshelf because I am either in the middle of reading them or want to read them soon, but haven't gotten around to it:

Some of the Parts by T Cooper, which I read years ago and pulled out to read again after I realized that he was the guest editor for the trans issue of Out Magazine (would have linked to it, but it looks like they don't archive their issues–too bad, ’twas chock full of hot transfags)

Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg, which RayVan placed in my hands, exhorting me to read it immediately. I've had inspiration, ideas, and encouragement flying at me from all directions to start/keep/never stop writing, but it's still pretty rough. Workin' on it.

The Professor and the Madman by Simon Winchester, which Mr. B gave me for the birthday. It's "a tale of murder, insanity, and the making of the Oxford English Dictionary"—some crazy scandal that shatters the ostensible purity of the English language, written by a globe-trotting geologist. Looks great and apropos of my new gig.

When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chödrön, another placed in my hands by a beloved housemate. I know that when I open this book, I will read exactly what I need to hear at that very moment. Buddhism's kinda magical that way. Today's gem: "It's a lifetime journey to relate honestly to the immediacy of our experience and to respect ourselves enough not to judge it."

My Death by Lisa Tuttle, the limited Brit edition on loan from Timmi at Aqueduct. We'll be publishing a North American edition soon! Haven't read it yet but it promises to be "creepy but feministically delicious."

Gödel, Escher, Bach: An Eternal Golden Braid by Douglas R Hofstadter ("a metaphorical fuge on minds and machines in the spirit of Lewis Carroll"), yet another treasure from the (former but lifelong) bookseller I live with. Looks to be a crazy melding of disciplines: philosophy, art history/criticism, math, physics, music. Can't wait to sink my teeth in… but it may have to wait until fall.

What am I currently, as in consistently, reading? Why, Salinger's Franny and Zooey, of course. I mean, how could I resist a small, plainly wrapped package (aside from the bright purple ribbon) dropped on my lap my a mysterious shadow blocking my sun as I napped at Cal Anderson?

To close, I shall leave you with this:




Aside: There is a high pitched tone that keeps pulsating outside of my house and all of the dogs are barking and it's driving me loony.