I am happy to live in downtown Austin and near the hill country, where the night air smells as it should; happy to have sheer white curtains with knots at the bottoms like I saw everywhere in the apartment windows in Chicago, happy to be able to walk to the pharmacy and the post office, (happy to be able to walk, period!) and happy to have a husband so happy with his new job.
I am happy to clean my apartment, happy to correct people's grammar, happy to have time to practice. (But will I?)
I read this article in Smithsonian magazine (we have a gift subscription) last night. Its tone seems quite serious to me, but judging by the content, it is a feeble or perhaps too subtle an attempt at tongue-in-cheek. It cannot mean to be taken seriously. If so, it is an arrogant display of blatant ignorance of the purpose and tradition of stories and storytelling, whose author seems a product of some sad, sanitized, politically correct "utopia" where truth does not exist and morals are relative. If meant as satire, it fails rather miserably at being witty, funny or enlightening, as any good satire ought to be. If this is the best the magazine can do in the humor department, what is one to make of their supposedly serious articles? Just putting it out there...
Today I am going to clean, practice, hopefully manage to squeeze in my long overdue physical therapy exercises, and make a blueberry pie.
