From “The Albanian Virgin”

And I did not think then, What nonsense it is to suppose one man so different from another when all that life really boils down to is getting a decent cup of coffee and room to stretch out in?

From “Differently”

At times the store was empty, and she felt an abundant calm. It was not even the books that mattered then. She sat on the stool and watched the street—patient, expectant, by herself, in a finely balanced and suspended state.

She thinks about sitting in the store in the evenings. The light in the street, the complicated reflections in the windows. The accidental clarity.

I'm still looking for my bookstore.

I will not offer my own wisdom on the matter—unproven as it would be—and I will not transmit such lessons from the book. Rather, I intend to offer meteorological portraits of Robbins' most beloved Seattle, indeed of the conditions in which we have so recently found ourselves:

On the shores of Puget Sound, October had come in like a lamb chop, breaded in golden crumbs and gently sautéed in a splash of blue oil. Indian summer, some characterized it, incorrectly, for technically, Indian summer must follow a frost, and there hadn't been a sign of frost since that freak freeze back in April. Rather, it was an extension of summer, summer had uncoiled and stretched itself out, like the garter snakes that, having heard no call to hibernate, still sunned themselves in the blackberry patch; snakes, all belt and no pants, startled from their prolonged laze only by the occasional fall of a berry, grown fat as a dove's egg and black as a curse in this longest of summers.

And to tempt and hasten the weather that surely blows near:

On the mainland, a rain was falling. The famous Seattle rain. The thin, gray rain that toadstools love. The persistent rain that knows every hidden entrance into collar and shopping bag. The quiet rain that can rust a tin roof without the tin room making a sound in protest. The shamanic rain that feeds the imagination. The rain that seems actually a secret language, whispering, like the ecstasy of primitives, of the essence of things.

One cannot claim that Tom Robbins does not write like Tom Robbins, or that he does not love Seattle.

I will claim that I begin again to love Seattle, weather be blessed or be damned, and that I read as always I read. Of love more archetypally I have nothing to add, well, perhaps just one opening sentence like a bag of bricks, having prompted me to purchase without further consideration Winterson's Written on the Body:

Why is the measure of love loss?

Truly? No, surely not. Truly? I suppose I will read on and love on and puzzle out the answer one of these years.

I will offer little context or description for better that you discover its depths on your own. May the following suffice: I wept in its conclusion. No matter your reply—“Drew, you cry at everything! Evidence: An American Tail”—Hedgehog is truly poignant.

From Paloma:

But if, in our world, there is any chance of becoming the person you haven't yet become … will I know how to seize that chance, turn my life into a garden that will be completely different from my forebears'?

From Renée:

This pause in time, within time … When did I first experience the exquisite sense of surrender that is possible only with another person? The peace of mind one experiences on one's own, one's certainty of self in the serenity of solitude, are nothing in comparison to the release and openness and fluency one shares with another, in close companionship …

Enjoy!

And so, I have been delighted lately to encounter contemporary bands employing this style in their music videos. I would like to share a few I have enjoyed of late, and I would love to receive any recommendations for other music videos or art in this style.

First, I offer the recent song "Oslo Novelist" by Grand Archives, depicting the adventure of a mustachioed spaceman slash novelist. What a job description! Did I mention he drinks red wine in a rocket? Winner.

Next, I present, as I have likely presented before, "Furr" by Blitzen Trapper. The video depicts the song's tale with original art, found illustrations and photographs. Be still my heart! As an aside, their album "Furr" has a handful of simply brilliant tracks and, despite lacking consistent quality, is absolutely worth a listen or two.

Lastly, I recently found "Camilo (The Magician)" by Said the Whale. I am reasonably certain the little boy, who is always catching on fire (1:47 is AMAZING), is rendered with computer graphics but the style is the same.

Enjoy, and please share!

My present Saramago project, All the Names, tells of Senhor José and his struggle to find truer purpose in a life of isolation and habit. Wading languidly through phrase after phrase, a little gem of words will reveal itself to me, and I will pause to consider its facets and take in its shine. Such was the case reading yesterday, considering the journey of Senhor José through the archive of the dead and receiving this truth:

Don't be afraid, the darkness you're in is no greater than the darkness inside your own body, they are two darknesses separated by a skin, I bet you've never thought of that, you carry a darkness about with you all the time and that doesn't frighten you, …

I will leave you to take your own meaning, even if such is difficult or impossible lacking the context of the novel. Or perhaps I will say, and not altogether seriously, that all matters without are likewise within. Regardless, read Saramago: Blindness and The Double were each fantastic. Saramago received the Nobel Prize for literature in 1998 and for good reason. Happy reading!

I ate four apple cider doughnuts on an achingly autumn afternoon with my father Federico and my mother Melanie and my sister Nicole and my brother-in-law Mark. Not pictured above are the wedding I attended the day before in Gloucester for Amy and Don or the striking colors of my first return to October in Massachusetts since 1999.

I took a Tuesday lunch at home as a challenge and constructed my finest sandwich in recent memory. Highlights include the first bite, the second bite, the last bite, and all those other scrumptious bits between.

I revisited fully, every page and word, the Lord of the Rings for the first time since having seen the movie, as evidenced by a particular Saturday afternoon at Volunteer Park Cafe. In the books, the women receive less attention and the men are all more obviously in love with each other, though less annoyingly so. I'm not sure Sauron has ever had Côtes du Rhône wine or bacon-chevre-chanterelle quiche, but maybe if he had he wouldn't have been such a jerkface.

If ever I love again, I will not wait to love as best as I can. We thought we were young and that there would be time to love well sometime in the future. This is a terrible way to think. It is no way to live, to wait to love.

I finished last night reading What is the What by Dave Eggers. This beautiful book moved me to tears over and over, even (or especially?) on my flight from Houston to Seattle. Yes, especially. Descending into the Pacific Northwest, I felt the echoes of a feeling of unrest from long ago, when I flew back into Los Angeles after living and working in Seattle for six weeks.

This is not right, I thought, back in 2004. I'm not supposed to be back here.

And at that moment two days ago, having departed from a life of joy, however unsustainable, in Costa Rica, and stirred by the telling of extreme hardship and transience in the life of Valentino Achak Deng, I was uncertain and dissatisfied. Am I supposed to live in Seattle? Is this right? Am I doing enough with my life? And already yesterday and today I am plagued by a persistent frustration and distraction in Seattle—an annoyance that nonetheless flitted away without fanfare on the warm ocean breeze for two weeks.

Don't get me wrong: I am happy in Seattle, but I am not altogether satisfied. A day may come when such an arrangement is not enough and I will depart for new vistas. Or maybe I am just adjusting poorly to the lack of surf.

I read two books by Saramago last year and loved both. He is truly a master of fiction. Please see A Beautiful Smudging and Re-Approaching a High School Level for more of my thoughts on Saramago.

First, a new stick figure slideshow cleverly and succinctly describes the Sub-Prime Mortgage Disaster in the United States. I found the explanation reminiscent of XKCD as well as a fitting accompaniment to Liar's Poker, which I read at the beginning of the year.

After Kottke posted his list of single serving sites, someone meta'd the topic and made a single serving site listing all other single serving sites. I particularly enjoy Beth Cherry, who maintains a single page blog with no archives or apparent feed to which to subscribe. This blog philosophy reminds me of my drawing professor senior year, who recommended keeping a sketchbook in which one glues down the page after completing each drawing (but admitted personally to tearing out and saving particularly good ones).

Finally, art imitates life. And let's hope life will imitate art come November.

The Guardian has a full discussion of the Santos-Obama story.