I took two more stupid caps off. It’s like typing by braille now. I can’t see all my keys.
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I have a student who is extremely intelligent (and self-motivated…a rare thing anymore) but dislikes reading and writing, which astounds me because of how well spoken he is. I told him that he’s clearly been reading the wrong books. He agreed to give a new book a shot, so I’ve made it a mission to find something that he’ll enjoy, something that might even inspire him to write. Not that everyone should write, but everyone should have that skill at hand
if when the need arises. I set my alarm to remind me this evening to find something of mine to lend him. I rummaged a bit and then realized that I haven’t read enough. I suddenly feel the need to broaden my literary horizons even though I’m reading my way piece-wise through a scattered assortment of books. As in scattered around the house. So I flipped through pages and then resisted the urge to start another book after rummaging and flipping and burying myself 30-something pages in Mother Night. Which now makes me question why I’m here tapping on little white unmarked nubs. I could be finishing something on my nightstand or this ragged copy sitting next to me. Or picking up where I left off on that 30-somethingth page.
I learned this evening that I have a new cousin. My parents are big into genealogy and sent in samples of their DNA to a database to get information about our ancestry. Not something I would personally do, but at their age what risk do they run? What risk would I run? Who knows. Maybe none. But Orwell sure does a good job of making me an even more suspicious person than I ever was, or rather a person suspicious. If I were a suspicious person, I would most definitely not send it in. But a long lost cousin of mine did, and my mom’s cousin found this out when she got her results back a couple of days ago, results that link her to a young girl that, according to the database, is her granddaughter. Long story short, what began as an attempt to find “Indian” blood (Native American, American Native, what have you) turned out to be the discovery of a granddaughter from India.
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It’s bedtime. If I had a nice 9-to-5, I could look forward to the weekend. Do those exist anymore? Nine-to-fives? Weekends?