ON TO AUGUST

One of my reasons for heading to Brooklyn this past week, was that the reading group was planning to meet to chat about Proust again. I am enjoying this section much more than the last but alas! the meeting was postponed.

As I sat on the F train on heading back to Emmylou from therapy the other morning, an older man spotted my volume of Proust and just had to talk to me up about the wonders of Marcel. That's one of the things to love about New York and the subway: I have had some lovely and spontaneous chats with strangers about books. I asked this fellow, who was German and must have been somewhere in his '70s or so, what he did. He was currently working as an art model, he had been a book seller and dealer, but he was born to be a reader, he told me.

Too bad there isn't much of a living to be made there.

I drove up to Rhinebeck yesterday afternoon, after a mid-morning nap with Cooder who is likely wondering where the hell I am these days. I finished listening to Rodney Crowell's memoir, Chinaberry Sidewalks (he talks about it in this link). I am glad to have listened to it as hearing it in Rodney's own voice was a treat. And as a bonus, Rodney has recently teamed up with poet/memorist Mary Karr (of The Liar's Club renown) as a songwriter. The resulting cd, Kin, is quite good and just the thing to follow the book.

Now for some more sleep?