I have only read a few pages so far tonight, as this was a day off for students and substitutes without a current classroom of their own. Casual Friday on the Island of Misfit Toys. That doesn't even really apply. Like I said, headache is still bumping around my brain, like a bullet of such low calibur that it managed to get into my skull, but can't smash its way out again. I'm thinking of the anarcho-mystic comic book The Invisibles, when one of the main characters mentions in passing that a guy he knew made his brain tumour his totem spirit/familiar, whatever. Named it and everything. Maybe I should just let my headache run roughshod all over my conscience mind, see what its hooves turn up in the dust.
Looking at the previous paragraph, probably not.
I intend to finish Huckleberry Finn tonight, within the next hour in fact, and get underway with The Prince and the Pauper. There is so much fun, silly hi-jink going its merry way in this book, that I want to mention the character of Jim again. In some ways he's caricatured, but in other ways, he is only mostly decent guy in the book. I'm not the first nor probably the millionth and first to say that. But there is an anecdote he relates about one of his daughters that I have not been able to get out of my head. I'm not going to spoil it or anything. If you don't want to read the whole book, it's about the last page or so (depending on the typeset/pagesize/whatever) of Chapter XXIII. It's flawed and it's sad and enraging and tragically comic or comically tragic and I don't know. But I can not get the anecdote out of my head, and it makes me want to cry.
'Nuff typed. back to work, nose to the whetstone.*
- Mike
* I can't afford a grindstone. Sand down your nose on whatever you have, really. Save your money.
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