monsters and Monstress

Haven't thought about a winter reading list, Bib, as such.  Finished reading Doctorow's Welcome to Hard Times – a re-read, actually, after thirty years, which was good, and now I'm devouring Stephen King's Bazaar of Bad Dreams, a few stories at a time, a taste treat for us tasteless types.  At my elbow now, a graphic novel by Marjorie Liu, Monstress, and Jeff Lemire's Animal Man, which will join me in the tub later.  (The King book, a hardcover, is too big for bathtub reading.)

At the couch, when I'm not consumed by the boob tube, I'm re-reading Helen Vendler's edition of Emily Dickinson, always new, always transformative.  (I suppose some people think of her as a springtime poet, but to me she's winter, surviving.)

Took Gay to the doctor yesterday to have her gall bladder out.  A pretty quick job – though not quick to her! – and she's recuperating pretty well.  Thank the gods for endoscopy.  That used to mean a foot-long incision and a pretty long confinement.  But she's up today having a pretty normal breakfast.

Otherwise, a sunny winter morning in Florida.  Up in the seventies.  The birds are birding and the workmen are hammering away on the neighbor's roof.  Those explosive tile hammers, somewhat distracting.  (To me they look like an accident waiting to happen; I'm glad I never had to use them.)  Not the best writing environment.  Guess I'll hop on the bike and go grocery shopping.

Joe