Wrote about nothing on Tuesday. Wrote about a camera on Wednesday. I predict third day slump.
Last night a friend encouraged me to read or possibly reread some of the classics. She suggested I sit with my oldest daughter and we read Alice in Wonderland together. I’ve never read this story. I’ve seen the Disney movie adaptation in full as a child–I think–and then again in parts and pieces while my kids watch it in pieces and parts on the DVD player in our living room. What I recall and what I’ve seen scare me two ways.
First, it raises an discomforting shiver up from my defenseless underarms like the threat of a tickle that quickly attacks my core. I shake it off of course–it’s just a movie–but the light ting of fear lingers.
Second, the story presented by Disney makes no sense. Disappearing cats, a deck of cards, and commands to drink or eat me? How could such nonsense flow sensibly if only I read the book?
Next up was some light brain candy for me: Atlas Shrugged. I gagged down most of The Fountainhead before I gave up on Rourke as some Bartlbyesqe prick come architect well before a plot of any kind emerged but not before I read more than half of the book. It’s been a while so I don’t recall the details, but ambling through life don’t a plot make. I’ll pick up Atlas–eventually–but I’m not expecting it to do much for me. Right now I don’t need books with a point.
Maybe I could fire up Hemingway, I hear he’s good. Please leave your classic recommendations in the comments below.
Day 233
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Douglas in Wonderland
Wrote about nothing on Tuesday. Wrote about a camera on Wednesday. I predict third day slump.
Last night a friend encouraged me to read or possibly reread some of the classics. She suggested I sit with my oldest daughter and we read Alice in Wonderland together. I’ve never read this story. I’ve seen the Disney movie adaptation in full as a child–I think–and then again in parts and pieces while my kids watch it in pieces and parts on the DVD player in our living room. What I recall and what I’ve seen scare me two ways.
First, it raises an discomforting shiver up from my defenseless underarms like the threat of a tickle that quickly attacks my core. I shake it off of course–it’s just a movie–but the light ting of fear lingers.
Second, the story presented by Disney makes no sense. Disappearing cats, a deck of cards, and commands to drink or eat me? How could such nonsense flow sensibly if only I read the book?
Next up was some light brain candy for me: Atlas Shrugged. I gagged down most of The Fountainhead before I gave up on Rourke as some Bartlbyesqe prick come architect well before a plot of any kind emerged but not before I read more than half of the book. It’s been a while so I don’t recall the details, but ambling through life don’t a plot make. I’ll pick up Atlas–eventually–but I’m not expecting it to do much for me. Right now I don’t need books with a point.
Maybe I could fire up Hemingway, I hear he’s good. Please leave your classic recommendations in the comments below.