The dash

Sometimes I forget that this isn't a dog-eared exercise book hidden under my bed.

But the night itself has actually been quite beautiful. The necklace is gorgeous enough for the Cats to claim victory on Saturday, and Balint made a beautiful dinner and I feel like the air is full of hope and wonder. And sometimes I am worthy and sometimes I notice.

The other thing that I've been thinking about is Fitzgerald (no, really?) and why Mum doesn't like him. At first, I just thought she was strange and didn't know good literature, but then Mari also said she didn't like the Great Gatsby.
And I thought, of course. Considering the conditions under which they lived in the 70's, the repression, the gray everydayness that Morissey couldn't have written grayer... why would they want to read about the gorgeous, carefree and for a time blameless days of liquor, ladies and longing that Fitzgerald portrayed from New York to the French Riviera?
And yet, the more I revisit his work, the more i believe he was a true genius. Of the damaged kind. His tenacious hold on the past is ultimately attractive to me.

And the dryer cycle is up, and I'm putting in the next load. Bring on the electricity bill.