Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Most mornings [achem, afternoons I guess], I eat my breakfast while reading on the terrace. Down in the streets, the trees and buildings create enough shade and trap the cold air, making it pants and jacket weather. But up on the terrace, above the trees and city, it's pure sunshine and blue skies.

Another place I've encountered my ghost is in the sentences of José Saramago's prose. Even though this time I'm reading The Elephant's Journey and not Blindness, I still feel my year-ago-self in the distinct way he joins words and clauses with so many commas and so few periods. Even his strange, amazing sense of knock-you-on-your-ass irony and humor holds traces of my old self.

Anyway, enough about ghosts. Here's my grocery store.


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