|Skitter wants to know WHY!|
I was never a Tom Petty OR Stevie Nicks fan (yeah, they’re both talented as hell, just not my thing) so, wut up?
This is a break up song—catchy hook, nothing deep.
Say you've had a little trouble in town
Say you're keeping some demons down
Stop draggin' my
Stop draggin' my (stop)
Stop draggin' my heart around
I don’t get why it’s stuck in my head this morning. Maybe because it’s another bleak, chilly, rainy day here in Valhalla—perfect for a serving of heaping plate of irksome melancholia?
I’m attempting, yet again, to NOT read the news first thing on waking. Honest to fuck, it’s not as though, in putting off facing the world outside Valhalla, I’m going to miss some urgent, flashing, life changing report. I CAN put off the doom consumption for an hour or two. This was my physical therapist’s idea—start the day with my most despised exercises (clamshells and arches) and get them outta the way before I’m fully awake.
|It's a good morning for Oreos, no?|
Why are unrewarding bad habits so hard to break?
And speaking of demons (we were, weren’t we?)…I started reading Barbara Kingsolver’s latest, Demon Copperhead. Truly? I thought it would be about, ya know, demons who would in some way resemble the snakes.
I KNOW, Kingsolver doesn’t write fantasy/horror. She doesn’t pen amusing escapism. Nope. She’s a Pulitzer Prize winning novelist, essayist and poet.
Cool but, but, but…the title! This should be about Zoroastrian snake demons, right? Right?!
Ah, nope, that’s a big negatoire good buddies.
Demon Copperhead is a re-telling of David Copperfield set in Appalachia—possibly the most depressing corner of America. Now, if I read David Copperfield it was WAY back in my long ago misspent youth. All I remember is that it was big-sad inspiring and there were no space ships and zero mythical beasties.
How’m I doing with Kingsolver’s tale? Not swimmingly at all. It’s not her—it’s totally me. The story, while well written, is bleak as all hell—just one chapter and vignette after another of child abuse, drug addiction and dashed dreams. Very Dickensian.
If I want to soak in this level of misery and hopelessness (which, generally, I do NOT) I could just read the goddamn news. I believe it’s now time to quit this and dive into a lovely Terry Pratchett.
Hello Discworld—white courtesy telephone.