Book Return

Tea: Vanilla Jasmine

Music: REM, "Driver 8"

Time: Night.

I think I have a poltergeist. It loves books. Either that, or it decided I was reading too many at one time and should focus my efforts.

See, I have a copy of Christopher Moore's A Dirty Job. I've been reading it, Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett's Good Omens and Diane Ackerman's A Natural History of the Senses. Yes, concurrently. If I don't have at least two books going at once, I feel something's wrong.

The poltergeist apparently doesn't mind if I have one fiction and one nonfiction piece on my plate at once, because it left me the Ackerman. I'm guessing it decided two whacked-out novels with Death as a character was just too much.

I finished the Pratchett/Gaiman last night. So, of course, the Moore reappeared today. I wonder what would happen if I took up Coyote Blue (also by Moore) while continuing to read A Dirty Job?

Then again ... maybe I don't want to know.

Plotjuggling

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang

Music: Switchfoot, "Gone"

Time: Night.

I go through periods, periodically, where I find myself immersed in more than one book at once.

Come tomorrow, I may be up to three. By the end of the week, it could be four.

The other day, I misplaced my copy of Good Omens by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. (It went missing at a critical time in the plot, too. Frustrating.) So I picked up John Knowles' A Separate Peace, which two of the kids have already read and which I started a few weeks back but had let lapse.

Finished Knowles. Still no sign of Pratchett/Gaiman. So I started in on Christopher Moore's A Dirty Job (yep, one of the Barnes and Noble Christmas books). It's utterly engrossing (see also hilarious, touching, menacing and brilliantly written) -- so, of course, once Moore had his latest hook in me, Good Omens turned up.

At about the same time, I found another mislaid book: Darryl Tippens' Pilgrim Heart: The Way of Jesus in Everyday Life, which was loaned to me by a friend. I need to read and return it. So it could wind up going on tomorrow's church trip with me.

I also want to return to a long-distance shared reading of Diane Ackerman's A Natural History of the Senses, which likely will resume on New Year's Day. There will be, of course, some rereading required to catch up.

I tell people "Words are my life." This verges on the ridiculous ... but it's a pretty good sort of ridiculous.

Same Store, Different Tastes.

Tea: Matcha.

Music: Sweet, "Ballroom Blitz"

Time: Night.

Family outing to Barnes and Noble today, to spend the Christmas gift cards.

I wound up with Christopher Moore's "A Dirty Job" (Yes, I've turned into a Moore junkie.) and C.S. Lewis' "Till We Have Faces." (I still have more card to redeem. They weren't that expensive.

The 17-year-old got three classics, and won't let me tell you what they are.

("There's this thing called privacy," she called over her shoulder as she headed to bed.)

The 16-year-old picked up "The Spiritual Brain: A Neuroscientist's Case for the Existence of the Soul," by Mario Beauregard and Denyse O'Leary.

The 14-year-old got music. (And no, I didn't browbeat her to get words. The card was hers, to do with as she pleased.)

It's more than interesting, seeing them develop their own tastes as they grow. There are influences, of course -- from teachers, from peers, from travel companions and (occasionally) from their parents. But none of them is a carbon copy of anyone -- and that's a good thing.

Real Men Read.

Tea: White Song Yang

Music: Bozzio Levin Stevens, "Black Light Syndrome"

Time: Night.

It's cold and snowy outside. I have the makings of (even more) hot drinks here.

And I have new books -- one of which is calling louder than the others. (No, it's not the Moore.)

Love you all dearly, but I'd be wasting a perfectly good reading night if I spent any more of it on the computer.

The Moore I read, the more I like.

Tea: White Grapefruit

Music: Johnny Cash, "Hurt"

Time: Night.

A few weeks ago, someone asked me to name the best book I'd read this year. My answer: George MacDonald's Phantastes (a book I should have discovered long ago, by an author I should have discovered long ago.)

Had someone asked me to name the author whose work has given me the most pleasure this year, though, I'd have blurted out Christopher Moore's name in a heartbeat.

I hadn't heard of him until this year, either -- but that was before I was given several of his books (Bloodsucking Fiends, Lamb and The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove, followed later by Fluke) by someone far more generous than I deserve. Now, Moore is among my favorite writers -- and people are still giving me his work.

With members of the extended family in for a visit, we had early Christmas at the house last night. And in one of my parcels, I found a copy of Coyote Blue.

I suppose tonight's song should have been "Give Me Just a Little Moore Time" or "More, More, Moore" ...

Nahhhh. Can't go wrong with Johnny Cash, either.

Demons and Witches and Goblins, Oh My.

Tea: Chinese Melon Seed.

Music:

Time: Night.

In a bid to clear my head today, I took myself to Barnes and Noble to spend some more of the Christmas gift card.

In the end, I gravitated to the clearance bin (largely because I don't have a gigantic amount left on said card). There, I found E.R. Eddison's "The Worm Ouroboros."

I took this as a sign that, having devoured George MacDonald's "Phantastes" and "Lilith" already this year, my pre-Tolkien fantasy reading should continue with this book.

I'm 51 pages in, and enjoying the trip so far. Eddison manages to be more affected yet less precious than MacDonald -- although I've yet to see anything as emotionally charged as some of MacDonald's writing, particularly the broken globe segment in "Phantastes."

Anyway ... it's an engaging read in a genre I enjoy. Between this brand of fantasy and Christopher Moore's whacked-out scenarios, I'm getting a good supply of unreality these days.

Never a bad thing, that. Not in my world, or what passes for it.

With a Page Turn Here and a Page Turn There ...

Tea: Mandarin Orange with honey

Music: Various selections for college choir and orchestra

Time: Night.

I've taken a break from the Tolkien re-re-re-visiting to read someone I should have discovered long ago -- George MacDonald, whose works influenced Tolkien, C.S. Lewis and doubtless countless others.

Better late than never.

I started with "Phantastes," which has its precious (not in the best sense) moments but also can be stirring, thought-provoking and heartbreakingly sad. Next up is "Lilith."

A gift of a book can be a dicey proposition. But when it works, it's a gift that lasts well beyond the final page.

This works. More than.

Cup XLII: Inside, Outside, KSU

Tea: Earl Grey

Music: "Wabash Cannonball," arranged for marching band

Time: Afternoon

Another football game finds me back in professional observer/chronicler mode. College this time: Baylor at Kansas State, on a gorgeous (if breezy) afternoon.

I went to school here, several lives ago. Didn't finish, but that's a long story for another time. Most of the football games I saw here, I saw from the pressbox. But for a while, before and after that, I was a fan.

Kansas State was pretty bad in those days, save for the 1982 season (a pressbox year for me). Empty seats abounded, and games were largely social (read: drinking) occasions.

The football team's better these days, but one thing hasn't changed. The tribal color on Saturdays in Manhattan is still purple.

I don't wear either team's colors when covering a game. It's a professionalism thing for me. It also marks me as an outsider to both tribes, putting me in the odd position of feeling out of place in a town I called home for years.

It's not that people are unfriendly. It's more my own sense of not belonging (and my tendency to slip into observation mode, which isn't always a bad thing).

It's okay, though. I have my havens here. Hibachi Hut. The Dusty Bookshelf. Radina's Coffeehouse. There are others, but those three are my haunts.

I go to see my friends Gary and Cheryl (and Hannah, their schnauzer, who loves me because I speak her language and throw a mean tennis ball for fetching). We drink diet soda and talk about sports, about theatre, about literature and music and ... and ... and ...

Before games, the three of us -- and others -- meet at the house of another friend, Jim. (I once mistook his voice for God's. Remind me to tell you the story sometime. It's kind of funny.)

We eat hamburgers, usually. Today, there were bratwursts, too. We talk, often about the upcoming game but just as often about whatever strikes our fancies.

Christians (in which number I both count myself and hope to be counted) are often told, "This world is not our home." That has some value in reminding us that we don't get to take all of our stuff with us when we move on to the next world.

But taken to an extreme, it can lead to clubbiness and clannishness and the idea that the simple pleasures of this life are to be avoided because they encourage "wordliness."

For my part, I'm grateful for a place at Jim's table, a spot on the pull-out sofa at Gary and Cheryl's, for a cup of coffee and a bowl of gumbo and a new old book of someone else's words.

Speaking of other people's words, here's tonight's ghost story:

A.C. Benson, "The Slype House"

Cup XXVII: Shah Mat

Tea: Joseph's Dream with honey

Music: Robert Fripp, "Starlight I"

Time: Night

Convergence of cool things tonight.

I won a chess tournament at Nighthawks. For that, I got a book (always a welcome prize for a wordperson). After that, I got to share a new taste with friends.

(Yeah, so the Coast and Center link is self-referential. Cut me some slack, it's late.)

And on top of that, my foot (tendinitis casualty du -- I'd say jour, but it's been more like a week) is doing much better. This is a very good thing.

And with that, off to dream.

But before that, speaking of chess:

I'd always heard that "Shah Mat" -- the Persian phrase that gives us "checkmate" in English -- meant "The king is dead." This article claims otherwise.

Not being an expert in such things, I make no claims to know which is right. I just like stirring the pot sometimes.

Okay, now it's dreamtime.

Tonight's spooky story:

Richard Marsh, "A Set of Chessmen"