Karie by the duck pond, late 1970s
Today is my birthday. I turn thirty-two - it sounds so grown-up to my ears, and yet I still feel like the child feeding the ducks in the midst of winter. Happy birthday to me because today, it really is all about me, hooray!
Okay, it is also a tiny bit about all the greetings, mails, texts and phone calls. Thank you all.
Having just finished Scarlett Thomas' "PopCo", I find myself longing for non-contemporary novels. I have been reading many books recently but all have all been written within the last thirty years. I long for a different sort of prose, a different perspective. And so I have been looking at my book shelves, thought about the books I have had to abandoned earlier in my life, and then I finally uncovered James Joyce's "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man". The choice was between "Portrait", "Ulysses" and Sterne's "Tristram Shandy". Clearly I'm going for the easy option because, well, I'm like that.
But I have a credit card and access to amazon.co.uk. I also have ideas (some borrowed from Harold Bloom, others from Clifton Fadiman and finally a few picked up along the way) about what to buy. But I want to ask you for a recommendation.
Feel free to add as many slightly left-field recommendations as you'd like and, if you want, your reason for recommending the novel.
In other news, I foolishly thought I would take tea with some good friends today (it is my birthday tomorrow). This led to a collapse in public and a subsequent three-hour nap. Sometimes I forget how little energy I actually do have and that I cannot just dismiss the lack of energy. Unfortunately every little action has a consequence.
Since I last had an MRI scan (mid-90s, if I recall correctly), technology has allowed the patient to listen to the radio during the scan. Unfortunately this meant I was forced to listen to a talk show debating killing stray dogs and then people suffering from claustrophobia. Not ideal listening material for someone who likes dogs and is trapped inside a snug plastic tube for 40 minutes.
Seeing as today is Super Tuesday, the Slate article, Can I Get My 5-Month-Old Daughter Photographed With Every Presidential Candidate? is a very apt link. The photos are great - I particularly like the first Barack Obama photo and the hilariously panicky Rudy Giuliani photo.
Today is also Shrove Tuesday - Pancake Tuesday - here in the UK. I made pancakes earlier today and served them Danish style with butter, a touch of ground cardamom and granulated sugar. Multi-culturalism r us, yo.
Let's be positive! My downstairs neighbour is not a hypersensitive man who complains that I 'type too loudly'. He is not a schizophrenic albino who loves Celine Dion and talks to his absent father whilst hiding from the people in the walls. He is not a Norwegian couple who argue until 4am, then shag and who will eventually leave me with two desert rats called Legolas and Gimli. Let's face it, I survived all those people, so why should I be so grumpy about him being a hippie stoner who puts the same prog rock song on repeat until 2.30am.
I must be getting old. Well, I did take up crocheting the other week..
Now, to paraphrase the amazing Flight of the Conchords: it's Hospital Time.
We went to the hospital today. I am going to have my brain-waves measured next week which is terribly exciting. I hope I do emit brain-waves and that they'll be interesting enough to result in a diagnosis. Right, let's move on to something a bit more interesting: + Fun Facts about the QWERTY Keyboard + The QWERTY keyboard and how it was adapted in Russia/The Soviet Union + Why the QWERTY keyboard got its layout + The QWERTY Myth
I'm seeing a neurologist on Wednesday which is great news. I've been waiting almost a month for this appointment. Stupid me for falling ill during the holiday season.