ABOUT ME

WHO IS THIS GUY?

CURRENT PROJECTS

WOODWORKING

(VERY)

SHORT FICTION

daily musings during uncertain times

To see previously posted pieces, please click here. To see my most recent posting, look below. Meanwhile, stay safe and wash your hands!

To read my thoughts concerning facts vs truth (non-political, I promise!) click right about here.

I would love to have you read my thoughts on the passing of a great man, My Uncle Bill

 

I think we may have fixed the comments section below. Wanna test it? 

Some of you know my mother had life-long residual paralysis from polio and that I've had friends living with differences all my life. So it will come as no surprise that I consider the 30th anniversary of the passage of the Americans with Disabilities Act worth noting.

Sorry if I come off a bit melancholy today but really, I'm mostly just perplexed:

What I read, lately

6 August, 2020

I’ve been reading a lot lately but not my usual fare. In normal times, I read more fiction than non and go through maybe a book every couple, three days. My tastes are fairly diverse, running from classics to emerging writers to Third World to the formula mystery folks. An occasional Steven King, Amy Tan, Grisham. You get the idea.  


But of late, I’ve found my taste for fiction diminished substantially. I’ve started Song of Solomon three times, didn’t get more than a page or two into One Hundred Years of Solitude. Great books. Books that grabbed me in the first paragraph. I just don’t have the brain for them at the moment.  


What I have been able to read are nonfiction tomes about anything that strikes my fancy. A book about lighthouse keepers. Wood carving tutorials and pattern books. Thomas Moser’s reissue of his book on Shaker furniture. Just about anything from Lost Art Press. A cook book. Yes, I was actually reading a cookbook the other evening.

 
Seems like in this time of pandemic, political insanity and the reemergence of rampant racism, I can’t allow myself to escape to the world of make-believe. I’ve entered a phase (Please, Gawd, tell me it’s temporary!) in which neither my reading nor my writing embraces the purely imaginary. But escape is precisely the condition for which I yearn.  


Just can’t seem to turn the key and swing open the door to make believe. 


Couldn’t tell you why.