Today began with Elise whining.
I always know it’s going to be a bad day if it starts with Elise whining. I mean, I wasn’t even out of bed yet, I hadn’t even sat up or thrown the covers off, and she was already whining, and then I was raising my voice, and then she was storming off in a huff.
Sorry, sweetie, I love you. But damn, girl!
Jill and I were going to go out for coffee so she just came and picked us up and we dropped Elise off at school together.
Saw this gorgeous view on the way back:
I hate the snow. Sometimes just looking at it fills me with rage.
But you can’t deny that that is some gorgeous light and shadow going on, and it was just a bright, shining, beautiful morning.
Then, of course, work totally sucked.
I came home angry and snappish. I just wanted to escape.
But I’m reading Station Eleven right now. Have you heard of it? You probably have, and if you haven’t, you should make yourself aware. It’s incredible.
There will be a full review! After I write about The Martian of course, I’m such a bad procrastinator.
Station Eleven is… profound. Beautifully written. Unlike anything I’ve ever read before.
Take this passage:
“Clark had always been fond of beautiful objects, and in his present state of mind, all objects were beautiful. He stood by the case and found himself moved by every object he saw there, by the human enterprise each object had required. Consider the snow globe. Consider the mind that invented those miniature storms, the factory worker who turned sheets of plastic into white flakes of snow, the hand that drew the plan for the miniature Severn City with its church steeple and city hall, the assembly-line worker who watched the globe glide past on a conveyer belt somewhere in China. Consider the white gloves on the hands of the woman who inserted the snow globes into boxes, to be packed into larger boxes, crates, shipping containers. Consider the card games played belowdecks in the evenings on the ship carrying the containers across the ocean, a hand stubbing out a cigarette in an overflowing ashtray, a haze of blue smoke in dim light, the cadences of a half dozen languages united by common profanities, the sailors’ dreams of land and women, these men for whom the ocean was a gray-line horizon to be traversed in ships the size of overturned skyscrapers. Consider the signature on the shipping manifest when the ship reached port, a signature unlike any other on earth, the coffee cup in the hand of the driver delivering boxes to the distribution center, the secret hopes of the UPS man carrying boxes of snow globes from there to the Severn City Airport. Clark shook the globe and held it up to the light. When he looked through it, the planes were warped and caught in whirling snow.”
— Emily St. John Mandel (Station Eleven)
Consider that, hmm?
It’s a book that seems to have this particular purpose of making you LOOK CLOSER at your own life.
Which is exactly what I need to do.