I was having coffee with my friend Emily today when I remembered a strange dream I had when I was in Denali. In the dream, I was Michelle Pfeiffer, and I got killed in a plane crash in Anchorage and then postumously (for something I wrote after I died, as a ghost) won the Pulitzer Prize. Things like that, I just have to wonder what they mean :-)
It's rainy here, and all the people who I thought would be in town aren't so I'm pretty lonely. My family's also in Phoenix for the day to see a baseball game, so my plans for the evening are to cook an honest-to-god vegan meal for myself and maybe watch Evita on tv. Or just read, if I can find anything to hold my attention. I just finished The Wind-Up Bird Chronical by Haruki Murakami, which I loved almost to the ending, which left me feeling profoundly unsatisfied. I'm not sure if that is just because of the way the book is or because I don't read critically enough with fiction and missed some astounding connection or something, but it put a major damper over my enjoyment of the rest of the novel. I hate it when that happens.
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