OYSTERHOOD is reclusiveness or solitude, or an overwhelming desire to stay at home.
I cannot believe it is almost time to return to my desk full-time. But luckily, I should be wrapping up a few things in the next week and then taking real time off to just rest properly without any pressure.
Today, I did work a bit, but took it easy for most of the Sunday. I swam and sunbathed with Glinka in the afternoon. She was first meowing at the edge of the pool, telling me to get out, and then cuddling with me on the blanket in the sun. She even forgave me the flea treatment she’d reluctantly received with the other feline family members in the morning. She was quite skeptical about the moisturising mask I put on my face after the swim though. It did not cover the nose and mouth properly, you see, and Glinka thinks that masks should be worn correctly. Wise Glinka.
I finished another Bosch novel and have no other to turn to. I am hitting the bookshops tomorrow for the next fix. I do, however, have some deeply satisfying poetry to read: Barbara Kingsolver’s How to Fly (when I can get it away from Salieri).
A gift from my love, this is poetry on another level. And the book itself as an object is so beautiful.
I have decided to do the Goodreads reading challenge this year and set my goal for 2021 at sixty books. It is what I managed this year, not counting the few books I had worked on (and read each several times). The sixty should be mostly reading for pleasure. Let’s see. I known that most people read much less than that, but I also know quite a few readers, including my love, who will read at least double in a year. What amazes me are aspiring writers who read much less.
Off to bed. Early night after a pizza and TV evening with my love.
Is it really January 2021 already?
How did this happen?
Be kind. Wear a mask. Support local.
“Physical distancing remains one of the key strategies to curb this pandemic.”