hidey die

Lately it seems as if Ventura is going out of its way to cheer me. Beautiful, beautiful book-reading weather is peering in at me from outside my window right now. Sometime last week I tried sticking with my resolution to go to the beach once a week in order to appreciate what I have here. I took about a mile walk from my house to the Ventura Pier, completely stunned the whole time that this-- walking on the freaking ocean, basically-- is something I am capable of doing. I watched the sunset, and a few of the odd people who found themselves watching it with me, turned around, and came home, freezing. Today I was driving home past the same pier and saw a homeless person, his little wagon of stuff next to him, sprawled out on this isolated turf in the sun, catching a nap. It looked like a nice idea.

My friend's birthday approacheth this weekend (St. Patty's, oh yes). Fellow friends and I have been scheming to get her on a picnic-y fun trip to the islands, but her oblivious self is not being compliant. I feel that surprises are so much more difficult to coordinate as one gets older. But I do love them. When they're happening to other people. Ha, I do not like being surprised. I am too vain and self concious for that.

This past couple of weeks I have been endlessly addicted to this TV drama "Damages." I was told the writing is top notch-- it's really not, at least dialogue wise, however the non-linear structure of a legal drama (sans courtroom! no law and order stuff here, mostly double crossing corruption) is impeccable. I am no good at structure, so I stand in awe of the masters.

Saturday night, with nothing better to do, I took up James Joyce again. Begrudgingly, I set myself 150 pages back to 250 and started reading again. I think I get it better the second time. It's hard to put down, strangely, though it be tedious, because you know the moment you do you'll have a devil of a time finding your place in Joyce's whacked narrative. I'm also coming to the conclusion (again) that James Joyce isn't really that fond of Ireland. He seems to sort of detest it and the "defeated" people in it. Quite a contrast with the outsider's view of the fighting, patriotic Irish. Still, there are parts in it, mostly Bloom's musings, that make me chuckle out loud. I'd post them if I had the book near, but of course I'm too lazy to fetch it. Later on today I'm going to make myself some tea and curl up with the rambling pages to see how far I can get. When I get tired I shall rest with Masters of Atlantis, which so far is scathingly good but without what I have come to appreciate in Portis books: heart. No heart. That is, not yet. Hmmyes hmmyes.

I am too fidgety in my brain to think of doing anything good. So often I wonder if I'm wasting my time. My 23 years. Bugger.

"I know there are alot of things I don't understand, but I want my life to have meaning."
-Temple Grandin