Vonnegut

(Of course, the kindness doesn't last.)  The evening sets in, though the sun has yet to set. The sky above me, cloudless.  Blue with a slight yellow tinge, either from the time of day or the result of wildfires further off.  House just about cool enough to be in. (As I stretch out close to the open window to feel any hint of breeze that might blow through.) Earlier, left to read, somewhere with air-conditioning.  Ignored by my waiter for so long, I finished the Vonnegut book.  Not sure what to say.  He rambles on and then hits you with profundity, such as when he talks about all the soldiers being children, or when Billy Pilgrim is waiting for the Tralfamadores to pick him up in their space ship and watches the war movie backwards,

When the bombers got back to their base, the steel cylinders were taken from the racks and shipped back to the United states of America, where factories were operating night and day, dismantling the cylinders, separating the dangerous contents into minerals.  Touchingly, it was mainly women who did this work.  The minerals were then shipped to specialists in remote areas.  It was their business to put them into the ground, to hide them cleverly, so they would never hurt anybody ever again. - Slaughterhouse Five, Kurt Vonnegut.

I was told to watch the movie version after reading it, and that a local theatre is adapting it for the stage this season. (I guess it's been adapted before.) Curious as to how both/either do this, Billy Pilgrim has a non-linear narrative.

I've located David Copperfield, might start that again this week.

Reading

Sat on a bench after work hoping to get some reading done.  The air was warm, smelling of jasmine, and I dozed off.  Read the same paragraph ten times, but then somehow managed to read ninety pages before deciding I should try to catch a bus and go home.  What stood out the most for me was the scene where the prisoners of war have been loaded up into the boxcars, and the enlisted men wait for days, crammed together.  How they take turns sleeping and standing and passing food and excrement back and forth to the vent of the car.  How they share in their common humanity, no one taking precedence over anyone else.  That's just beautiful to me.  In extraordinary circumstances, we can find this kindness for one another, why not everyday?

Somethin'

If reading the first page counts as starting, have just begun "Slaughterhouse Five" by Vonnegut.  (This is in addition to also being in the process of reading, "The Pilgrimage," Paulo Coehlo, "My Beloved World," Sonia Sotomayor, "The Actor and the Target," Declan Donnollan, "David Copperfield," Dickens (which I've misplaced since moving, almost three months ago.  Every time I thing I should get organized, I just get overwhelmed; I can't really find anything), and having just finished "The Edible Woman," Margaret Atwood, but I've read that one before, many times.)

I'm not busy enough, apparently.  Also, taking a modern dance class, a clown class, starting a self-imposed art project, and trying to decide whether or not to reconsider enrolling in an acting conservatory program I had previously declined, but some of the circumstances for which I based that decision have changed and I have been updated on those.  I'm not deciding today. (I also bought a blank journal, they were on sale: guess that means I should start writing again.)

So many good intentions.

Ha!