Posted by: Sally Ingraham | December 7, 2010

Busy Being Unemployed

Having so much time off is blowing my mind. I get up every day and feel completely confused for a moment…wait, it must be some kind of a trick. I don’t have to go to work today? Again?!

In the past I’ve usually been traveling if I have more than a few days off together. I’m trying a new thing these days though – staying home. Home is a pretty fun place to be. I have many house projects – aside from making curtains, there is painting the kitchen, painting the radiator covers, painting a mural in the bathroom, painting a mural above the fireplace…lots of painting. Also to keep me busy I have: cooking and baking experiments (so far lasagna and mac ‘n cheese is as fancy as I’ve gotten, but there is a Shepherd’s Pie in my near future!); loads of laundry in the washing machine that I own (good-bye laundromats!); playing the cello (or rather, trying to keep it tuned…it’s been awhile since it’s seen anything beside the closet wall…); jumping and dancing and generally making a fool of myself with the encouragement of whatever is on FitTV at the moment; playing with my cats; streaming movies through my new Roku player (too much of a homebody to even go out to my mailbox to check for a physical Netflix movie some days…!); listening to 89.3 The Current (the best radio station I have yet to discover, thank you Minnesota!); writing letters; making my Christmas presents; and of course reading.

It’s the reading that I’m taking a break from right now. In spite of the fact that yesterday was a fabulous snow day and therefore the perfect day to curl up on the couch with books, I was rather productive and even took a carload of returnables to the recycling center (and then bought myself a gift box of Chimay beers with matching goblet!) So today I decided to devote myself to reading, and after hours of it, my brain hurts a little!

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My reading is a bit more intensive these days since I am pretending that I am in school again, and am therefore taking notes like a regular note-taking wizard. See all my pretty notebooks? ๐Ÿ™‚ I haven’t actually opened the Marquez yet, and the 6th volume of Proust was being camera shy.

Of the books pictured, my favorite at the moment is The Language Instinct by Steven Pinker. I’m fascinated by his theories about how children reinvent their native tongue with each generation, using their own internal universal grammar to make a language out of what they hear spoken around them. I’m also intrigued by the concept that thinking exists without words, and that our minds must therefore translate the immense ideas that easily exist in our own heads, into strings of words that can be understood by those around us. Spoken and written language can barely express what our real thoughts are, as is evident every time you speak or write something and immediately grumble, “That’s not what I meant at all…” I’m eager to see what else Pinker has to say, and of course as this is my first earnest foray into the world of linguistics, I’m taking him with a grain of salt. His theories are so interesting though.

I wouldn’t say that Palace Walk is speaking to me yet. It’s the first of The Cairo Trilogy by Naguib Mahfouz, which Hedgie of The Compost Heap recommended to me last year after I admired his review of Akhenaten: Dweller in Truth by Mahfouz. I’m finally getting around to reading the series along with Richard and several other people (see my sidebar for details on the readalong). I’m enjoying the setting and cultural details, but I’m finding the style a bit flat and even though I keep reminding myself of the traditions and customs of the time and the religion, I’m groaning over the boxed up reality of the women in the story and so far can’t stand the father/husband character. Only on chapter 11 though, so there is plenty of the book left to see what happens.

I am rather fond of Lin Yutang, author of Importance of Living. He has such a quirky style, and is quite funny at times in his attempt to reveal something of what he calls the Chinese attitude toward life. I can relate to someone who is interested in keeping in harmony with his natural human instincts, someone who recognizes that ‘Man is, as it were, sandwiched between heaven and earth, between idealism and realism, between lofty thoughts and baser passions. Being so sandwiched is the very essence of humanity; it is human to have a thirst for knowledge and thirst for water, to love a good idea and a good dish of pork with bamboo shoots, to admire a beautiful saying and a beautiful woman.

I feel like I’ve appreciated the grand ideas and beautiful thoughts enough for one day, so for now I’ll embrace one of my baser passions and go see what kind of fun beer I have in my fridge at the moment. Otter Creek Brewing‘s Alpine Black IPA has been treating me very well lately. ๐Ÿ™‚

Posted by: Sally Ingraham | December 6, 2010

A Month in the Country

a month in the countryby J. L. Carr

By nature we are creatures of hope, always ready to be deceived again, caught by the marvel that might be wrapped in the grubbiest brown paper parcel.’

The parcel here is not grubby – grubby would never be a word I would use to describe a NYRB edition – but there is certainly a marvel wrapped in its paper. Tom Birkin, attempting to recover what the Great War and a broken marriage left of himself, goes to work in a remote Yorkshire village. He has been commissioned to restore a medieval mural in the local church. While uncovering this truly remarkable depiction of the apocalypse, he makes friends with the unique and entirely individual population of Oxgodby, enjoys a tantalizing bit of romance, and begins to find his life worth living again.

A straightforward storyline to all appearances, but this lovely little book is from page to page not what you’re expecting. The blatant outline of the story is deceiving – there are big, sweeping themes there, but Carr tells it with masterfully subtle strokes. You stand with Tom as he takes in the view from his bell tower accommodations in the early morning. You go to tea at the station master’s house, and get fondly harassed by his teenage daughter. You barely speak to the minister’s wife, but manage to communicate volumes. You admire a stove for its clever design. You are in Tom’s head, and so you can’t help but feel his pleasure when the sun shines, almost miraculously it seems, on his face. In spite of his twitch and stutter and nightmares, in spite of the weight of the lost and gone, even though Tom has only fleeting moments of happiness, the book is full of a sense of wonder and hopefulness. The small marvelous things are recognized, even if they are as simple as a hot biscuit or as astonishing as a piece of art hundreds of years old.

And yet, for all that the majority of the book seems to be about healing and resurrection, it is told by an older Tom who is looking back with a kind of wistful pain on the wondrous month he spent in Oxgodby, remembering the people he knew and loved for such a brief moment in his life, a moment that has passed and was long ago. So intimate with Tom for an equally brief 135 pages, I was left wondering what happened to him. What was the rest of his life like, and why did I set the book aside with the tightness in my throat of near tears?

An exquisite piece of writing.

Posted by: Sally Ingraham | December 3, 2010

Curtain Call

I spent the morning making curtains – quick and easy ones, if you can call dealing with that much fabric easy… I love having tons of light in our house, but at night the neighbors can surely see everything we do through our large windows. I opted for a version of the “cafe curtain” even though it’s technically a style reserved for kitchen windows or bathrooms. I think they’ll do the trick for the time being though, until I get more ambitious.

I discovered two fun materials while doing this project – curtain hooks, which eliminate the need to sew in a rod pocket and make for very easy sliding in case you want to open the curtain a bit; and HeatnBond Hem Tape, which eliminates sewing! I happen to be quite proficient on a sewing machine, but of course mine is buried somewhere…and I was curious to see what results an iron and this adhesive tape stuff really produced. The technique is simple, and in spite of my guilty feeling about it being a kind of cheating, I really like the sharp, clean lines of the hems. Good enough for now.

Here’s a picture of the only space in my house that feels pretty homey – my “office” and “library” nook behind the chimney:
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There are my new curtains too. I’ve only got an impromptu bookcase out at this point – home of my current reads and a few new books that I didn’t have the heart to put away in a box with my other treasures. The space goes off about 7 or 8 feet to the right there, and I’ll soon have several bookshelves and a comfy reading chair. So exciting! ๐Ÿ™‚

I think I’ll spend the rest of the afternoon reading. It’s gloomy and cold out, which means it’s the perfect weather to contrast against the bright warmth of the streets of Cairo, care of Naguib Mahfouz’s Palace Walk.

Posted by: Sally Ingraham | December 2, 2010

Movie Mayhem: November

Due to moving, for much of November I was only able to watch movies on my computer. Once the TV was unearthed, cable television quickly took over my viewing time in its usual distracting, unsatisfying way. There are some shows that I enjoy, and lots of Travel Channel and Discovery and Nat Geo programing is interesting and informative, but overall in spite of my tendency to get sucked into watching hours and hours of TV, I don’t actually like it much. It’s charm wears off rapidly, and at this point I definitely want to get the DVD player up and running – I’m just dying to watching a good movie!

Movie watching in November was not awesome…only US and mostly recent films, and almost without exception light and fluffy fare – things like What Happens in Vegas (Tom Vaughan-USA-2008), and Killers (Robert Luketic-USA-2010) which concluded my accidental Ashton Kutcher mini marathon…and Death at a Funeral (Neil LaBute-USA-2010) which is nowhere near as good as the totally rad British original from 2007…and my Sigourney Weaver evening which was composed of Galaxy Quest (Dean Parisot-USA-1999) and Aliens (James Cameron-USA-1986), both movies I actually like quite a bit…

dragonSo what was good? Of the eight (only eight!!!) movies I watched in November only one was fantastic, and only one was a movie that was something from my TBW list – How to Train Your Dragon (Dean DeBlois, Chris Sanders-USA-2010) and Arsenic & Old Lace (Frank Capra-USA-1944).

How to Train Your Dragon was easily one of the cutest, funniest movies I’ve seen all year. The dragons act so much like my cats! I found myself squirming with delight more than once for this reason. The dialog is pretty amusing, and the storyline is fairly original. Not a lot there to challenge the mind, but as you can probably tell from this months crop, I’m not always looking for that. Just an enjoyable movie all round.

peter lorreSlightly more challenging would be Arsenic & Old Lace. I found it a bit over-the-top, and Cary Grant’s acute astonishment at each jolt in the plot got almost annoying. Still, it was an amusing black comedy with a rather awesome performance from Peter Lorre – cripes, that guy is weirdly creepy! I need to go back and watch Casablanca and The Maltese Falcon again, amongst his other stuff (and I’ve been meaning to watch those two again anyway – last seen when I was 14 and fascinated with Bogart!) I think I would get a kick out of reading the play, which I always thought was an Agatha Christie piece – totally wrong there, as I now see it’s by Joseph Kesselring…

So what TV shows have been keeping me from watching movies? Mostly NCIS, Burn Notice, and How I Met Your Mother. Keeping my supply of guns and roses well stocked! Anyway, here’s hoping December will be a really interesting and eclectic month of movie watching. ๐Ÿ™‚

Posted by: Sally Ingraham | December 1, 2010

Vilnius Poker

vilnius pokerby Ricardas Gavelis
translated by Elizabeth Novickas

I’ve been struggling for over a week to come up with some concrete thoughts about this book, with very limited results. While reading it I wavered between genuine, if somewhat abstract, enjoyment, and near-physical illness. More than once I fought off the desire to fling the book across the room in utter horror and frustration, and then moments later I found myself underlining an especially lyrical phrase. Gavelis and his character Vytautas Vargalys drove me crazy!

Who is the heroic and tragic and deeply disturbed (and disturbing) Vargalys? Emotionally stunted by coming of age in a labor-camp, Vargalys writhes through life tormented by visions of his lost family, and locked in an epic battle with Them, the creators of the dead-eyed humanity who haunt the streets of Vilnius and the countryside of Lithuania, and to some degree or other the rest of the world.

The events of a single day and of Vargalys’ entire life are conveyed by him in a looping, seeming chaos – individual pixels, colors repeating without apparent relation to each other until you step away. The further away you step the more the picture comes together, and Vargalys zooms in and out repeatedly while maintaining a dizzying clarity. For the first 300 pages of the book you are trapped in his mind as his consciousness roams back and forth through this horrible landscape, past and present and future colliding. This style of narration appealed to me, and I was swept along by it even while I was completely appalled by the grotesque details of his life, by himself and his relationships to the people around him. There is a lot of imagery, and certain details surged out of the muck for air repeatedly – birds, or the lack of them; cockroaches; fog; excrement; sexual organs; stray dogs; and eyes, dead eyes, staring eyes, the glazed and deadly gaze of the Vilnius Basilisk. While the narrative style was compelling, the content was often almost more than I could stand. “If I come across one more wretched reference to genitalia of any type I’m going to scream!” I remember thinking. I almost gave it up entirely on four occasions.

There were hauntingly beautiful, evocative descriptions of the city of Vilnius though, and there was a bit of a storyline that out of pure curiosity I just couldn’t abandon. From the beginning there was a sense of dreadful fate and I lurched through those 300 pages in stubborn pursuit of what was going to happen. Vargalys works in a library, has coffee breaks with his co-workers, sleeps with some of them, watches TV with others, is seduced by a lovely woman named Lolita, and then… shrouded in vines and dusk and seen through grimy windows a murder happens. The narrative is then given into the hands of three other citizens of Vilnius, three other players in the great poker game, and what their cards reveal brings the whole book together in an entirely unsatisfactory and yet inevitable way.

Did I like this book? No not really – not at all to be perfectly honest. But the reading experience was fascinating and much as I would have liked to set the book aside, I was captivated by it. Vargalys was so unlikeable in so many ways – delusional, occasionally violent, with a really revolting view of women and sexuality that I can only be marginally grateful proved to be part of his characterization and not Gavelis’ real opinion…! Somehow though, there was a weird nobleness to Vargalys. Tall, powerful, and handsome to all reports, his bizarre ravings in the context of his own inner landscape had a semblance of the epic and heroic, and at times I could almost believe in him as the tragic champion, the knight in shinning armor, fighting to save Vilnius and humanity from Them:

‘…my meaning is to follow Their footsteps to the very end, wherever that should lead. Even if the world itself hungered for destruction, I was obliged to prevent it…I know this for sure: as long as at least one person thinks this way, everything is not lost.’

Makes me think of Sam and Frodo and their desperate journey to save Middle Earth from darkness. This is not a book about heroes, or the triumph of good though. It is about one mans attempt to escape the ‘unbroken sugary fog‘ that is left in the wake of human atrocities. Whether or not he succeeds is also wrapped in fog.

Conceptually interesting, provocative, and vividly realized…the most agonizing book I’ve read all year. I still feel a bit shaky when I think about it, so for now and probably forever I will let it rest.

This was The Wolves‘ November read. Join us in December for Clandestine in Chile by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

Posted by: Sally Ingraham | November 28, 2010

An Ear-catching Diversion

My new favorite toy, without a doubt, has got to be Grooveshark. There’s no better way to avoid house improvement projects and difficult blog posts (my review of Vilnius Poker…) than by being the DJ at my own exclusive nightly club, where Iggy Pop’s Lust for Life is followed by Leo Sayer’s Long Tall Glasses, and John Lee Hooker’s Boom Boom comes hot on Tom Sawyer‘s heels (Rush). My only patrons are my enamored boyfriend – who thinks my ability to dig up the “Cajun song” from the movie Southern Comfort (Parlez-nous A Boire by The Balfa Freres) makes me some kind of genius – and my two cats, who eye my sweet dance moves with undisguised puzzlement. Maybe they’re just worried that in my enthusiasm for Jump (The Pointer Sisters) I’m going to slosh scotch on them. They need not fear – I do not spill Glenlivet.

I have book reviews and movie reviews coming soon, as well as more relevant things to post about, but for now I will put myself to bed with the sweet lullaby of John Bonham’s drum solo in Moby Dick. ๐Ÿ™‚

Posted by: Sally Ingraham | November 22, 2010

Why I’m Reading Proust

the little phraseThe only real journey, the only Fountain of Youth, would be to travel not toward new landscapes, but with new eyes, to see the universe through the eyes of another, of a hundred others, to see the hundred universes that each of them can see, or can be; and we can do that with the help of an Elstir, a Vinteuil; with them and their like we can truly fly from star to star.‘ – from p.237 of The Prisoner by Marcel Proust – translated by Carol Clark

Seeing Proustโ€™s hundreds of universes is always a remarkable thing.

I picked up The Prisoner once again today, having started it back in August and plugged away at it for a few weeks here and there since then. Iโ€™d really like to finish it before this month is over, then knock out The Fugitive in December and finish the last volume in January, bringing this journey to a close exactly two years after I began it.

As always, once I get the hang of reading Proustโ€™s prose again, I am swept up in his rhythm and passions. I especially enjoyed the section I read today, which found Marcel caught up in a performance of a previously unheard piece by the composer Vinteuil. I always love when Proust writes about music, and the following passage struck me particularly, especially given the fact that this morning when I was listening to Middlesex (Jeffrey Eugenides) during my morning commute the narrator was bemoaning the lack of words available to properly express human emotions:

โ€˜And just as certain creatures are the last example of a form of life which nature has abandoned, I wondered whether music were not the sole example of the form which might have served โ€“ had language, the forms of words, the possibility of analyzing ideas, never been invented โ€“ for the communication of souls. Music is like a possibility which has never been developed, humanity having taken different paths, those of language, spoken and written.โ€™ p. 237

I am on the brink of spending some time actively looking into the development of language, something I am very interested in, but it is always amazing to me to experience how hugely effected I can be by what is said and heard through music.

Speaking of music – Vinteuilโ€™s Sonata to be exact – I found this article on the theories about what real-life musician and specific piece of music inspired Proustโ€™s character and fictional sonata. I had wondered when reading the passages about Swann and โ€˜the little phraseโ€™ if the music Proust described was a real piece. I guess not. When I get home from work I have every intention of listening to the samples of Proustโ€™s possible musical inspirations offered in the article.

For now Iโ€™ve got to get back to my reading though. As long as no one comes into the shop looking for a cappuccino, Iโ€™m free to get lost in Proustโ€™s hundreds of universes.

—-
The image above was painted by David Richardson for a book not yet published called The Bedside Proust. The painting is titled Odette Plays Vinteuil. I’ll be curious to see this book when it comes out, as it is an abridged version of Proust’s mamoth novel, written in the form of 140 character Tweets! Should be interesting. ๐Ÿ™‚

Posted by: Sally Ingraham | November 21, 2010

NYRB Books + friends

Since I don’t feel like talking about two books I read recently and didn’t particularly care for (The Caretaker of Lorne Field by Dave Zeltserman and Shades of Milk and Honey by Mary Robinette Kowal)…instead I’m going to share my recent additions to my (nonexistent at the moment) bookshelves! My book buying has been somewhat limited this year. I bought books from Jesup’s annual library book sale in August, and picked up some of the shared reads The Wolves have delved into over the year (The Wolves were formerly referred to as the “non-structured reading group”, more on that later!). I haven’t bought books with such utter glee as I did recently though, since my Open Letter book buying binge in May.

All the buzz at the beginning of November over NYRB Reading Week really got me itching to collect some NYRB titles, even though I was too busy to participate in that specific reading project. The pile of reviews of fantastic sounding books that cropped up during that week only made me crave them more, so with Sasha’s year long NYRB reading project in mind, and having realized that The Wolves’ December read was a NYRB title, I finally caved in – shoving thoughts of house projects and bathroom supplies far from my mind – and bought a tantalizing trio.

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Clandestine in Chile is The Wolves’ December read, and A Month in the Country sounded great based on Frances’ excellent review. Since reading A Void by Georges Perec I’ve been concocting a reading list from the published works of other members of the Oulipo group. I was delighted to see Witch Grass by Raymond Queneau, one of the co-founders of the group, among NYRB’s offerings.

The other two books, which are too pretty to be excluded from this post, were picked up at a local bookstore during the annual Pajama Sale yesterday. The concept is this: Go shopping between 6 a.m. and 9 a.m. in your PJs to get great deals at most of the stores in town. It’s always pretty fun. I got the Italo Calvino title because it’s on my Oulipo list, and I couldn’t pass up the particularly striking edition of my favorite Shakespeare play, published by Modern Library in collaboration with The Royal Shakespeare Company. I kind of want to get the rest of the plays in this edition – they’re just lovely.

I really am psyched about the NYRB Books. I love the weird artwork on the front, but even more so I love the solid color on the spine and the different but complimentary solid color of the end papers. Hopefully the words inside will measure up to the packaging!

I have a new…not restriction, just an idea I guess…about my book buying and my pile of unread books. I think I’ll try to refrain from ordering new NYBR titles, or Open Letter titles, or Persephone titles, etc., until I have read the ones I own. While the idea of having all these gorgeous looking books on my shelves is sometimes half the fun of buying them, I was supposed to be more excited about reading them! Fortunately I don’t have a lot – three NYBR books, two unread Open Letter books, and maybe two or three unread Persephone books. Manageable. And these are more like guidelines then actual rules.

Anyway. Yay new books! ๐Ÿ™‚

Posted by: Sally Ingraham | November 20, 2010

It all started with the historian…

And that would be The Historian, the book by Elizabeth Kostova – hefty enough to stop a door, spooky enough to give momentary chills even in a speeding car, occasionally smirk-worthy, frequently sensational, but with the right mix of travel-in-foreign-places and academic sleuthing to keep me…pretty much riveted. Did I mention there were vampires?

Actually, and this is somewhat ridiculous, I didn’t know anything about this book when I checked the audiobook out from my local library. I think the barcode on the back must have covered up the words “vampire” or “Dracula” or “Vlad the Impaler” and probably “Transylvania” (all, er…dead…giveaways) because when I slipped the first CD into the player in my car and got not very far at all into the tale, I had a startled, “Whaaa…? Oh. Oh! This is a Draaacccula story…” moment.

Which is not to say that I don’t like Dracula stories. I’ll take a re- um…vamped I guess I do have to say, Dracula story over your average vampire tale any day. Because he, at least, is kind of based on a historical figure…which means what exactly? I don’t know, but Elizabeth Kostova thought that was interesting too.

She tells a rather entertaining yarn about several generations worth of encounters with Dracula, and the fact that she framed it in an academic setting populated by scholarly people, and made the plot shuffle along with the thoughtful steps of a librarian particularly appealed to me. There’s lots of paging carefully through ancient manuscripts, velum, and onion skin in pursuit of clues or hints of Vlad Dracula’s escapades, while living and while…less so. There are lots of old world settings, crumbling monasteries and cob-webbed crypts. Mmm, crypts!

But mostly….mmm scholastic activities. The book gets points for entertainment value, and I’ll probably pick up something else by the author in the future. What I really took away from it though was a nostalgic yearning for the fantastic and exciting days when, as a 13 year old homeschooler, I sat on the floor in the aisle in the adult non-fiction section of my library, scouring some immense tome in search of some tidbit about some historical person or event, so that I could add to my growing pile of notes, collected for the purpose of writing my own versions of history. How fondly I remember the thrill of research, the pleasure I took in connecting the dots.

Then the other night I had a dream where I was, with extreme earnestness, writing something like a thesis (however little I really know about those things) on linguistics – some branch of linguistics, the origin of language itself I think. I woke up and started thinking about how much I used to enjoy reading about mathematics…

Here’s the end of this grindingly slow train of thought – I want to read more non-fiction! I have some unexpected free time coming up – instead of being laid off for 6 weeks, I’m going to have the next 3 months off. This hampers my book buying, of course, but I’m somewhat staggered by how much reading time I’ll have. I intend to go back to school, the only way I know how – via books (and maybe Rosetta Stone…) Here’s the beginnings of a tentative reading list for my self-styled secondary education:

The Language of Mathematics: Making the Invisible Visible by Keith Devlin

The Language Instinct: How the Mind Creates Language by Steven Pinker

The Unfolding of Language: An Evolutionary Tour of Mankind’s Greatest Invention by Guy Deutscher

The Importance of Living by Lin Yutang

These are just the books I came up with today – when December bludgeons me with free time, I’ll begin raiding my library for anything and everything that looks interesting. What else do I need? Maybe a notebook, and a good pen. And also any suggestions from you all – what have you read recently that was an utterly fantastic, simply riveting book on a fascinating subject or person, something that proves once again that truth is stranger than fiction?

Posted by: Sally Ingraham | November 15, 2010

Murklins

Cinoc read slowly and copied down rare words; gradually his plan began to take shape, and he decided to compile a great dictionary of forgotten words, not in order to perpetuate the memory of the Akka, a black-skinned pigmy people of Central Africa, or of Jean Gigoux, a historical painter, or of Henri Romagnesi, a composer of romances, 1781-1851, nor to prolong the life of the scolecobrot, a tetramerous coleopter of the longicorn family, Cerembycid branch, but so as to rescue simple words which still appealed to him.
– from Life A User’s Manual by Georges Perec (trans. by David Bellos) p. 329

Thanks goodness I never bother to pull my sticky notes out of books that belong to me after I’ve finished reading them! Clearly marked “Cinoc’s dictionary”, this salmon-pink page marker among its 30 siblings was easy to turn to. My only difficulty was finding the book itself and digging it out of my 8+ book boxes, still stacked sadly in a corner of my new bedroom…

I came across the Save the Words project from Oxford University Press/The Oxford English Dictionary a few days ago and since then I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Cinoc and his dictionary. Save the Words encourages participants to adopt a word that is in danger of going extinct, and reintroduce it into their conversation and written communication. I can get behind that, and I think Cinoc would approve.

I have adopted the word “murklins”, which means in the dark. As in: I’m sitting here murklins, cursing daylight savings time and dreaming about what kind of lamp I will buy for my computer desk…and also what kind of computer desk. I have the feeling that this will not be the only nearly obsolete word that I adopt – I may not gather eight thousand of them, as Cinoc did, but perhaps eight new words a year is a good goal… ๐Ÿ™‚

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