You must excuse me, I’m feeling poetic.

I do believe this is the awesomest thing I’ve ever seen involving livejournals.
many words but she
just…doesn’t instead some of us
waded and splashed

of the snow this was
not among them but at least
it looked like he

was dead for a long
time ago because they walked
through the house because

not which is good since
you will always be able
to find it i do

i poked around
inside a little smile
on now the night to

the limit was and
it was a little smile
on now the night to

haircut a sapling
cannot grow in the house but
it does a rather

him for leadership
which i don’t have to worry
about it other

wouldn’t say that in so
many words but she did say
i had been alive

They all just came out like that, ready-to-go coolness! I kept refreshing and refreshing forever because they were all so awesome. I don’t know if I can stop…

Last night I stayed up late reading The Crucible because it was so consuming I couldn’t put it down. I’d read Death of a Salesman by Miller before and had heard it compared to this play, but Salesman cannot hold a candle to The Crucible. It’s so GOOD. Good isn’t the right word, the story itself is a little terrifying and quite appalling, but it’s also terrifyingly well-done. You feel helpless and frustrated right along with the characters, and the fact that it IS terrifying and appalling is what makes it simultaneously so wonderful. It’s one of the finest plays I’ve ever read, and I would love to see it on stage. My one problem, if it’s even a problem, is that I read somewhere that The Crucible was written partially as a response to McCarthyism. By pinning the meaning to one specific event, I think it loses something; it brings the play’s message down to the level of politics when it should have a much larger scope. That being said, it’s still magnificent and penetrating and everyone should read it now.

I started Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury today, and I’m just going to reiterate my love for Bradbury. He manages to put into words the things I wish I could. Dandelion Wine is the quintessence of summer; it almost feels like a travesty to even read it indoors, except it’s 95 degrees out. His descriptions epitomize how I remember my summers back home. At the same time, it’s sad to read because I can’t feel the same about summer here in North Carolina. In Indiana, sun-kissed summer days with that slightly-dusty haze existed. Here, there are only sun-hammered days where it feels you’re being pounded into the ground like one of those metal bottle caps that’s been run over by a dozen cars. There isn’t that green smell because the air is too heavy for smells to hang in. Bradbury’s writing is exquisite; characters and images are so beautiful, it almost feels like it can’t last. It’s like when life is so crushingly beautiful that you know something just slightly jarring is going to happen; not necessarily bad, just a jolt. I keep holding my breath, expecting that slight electric-fence shock, and it makes the book even better because it’s so realistic.

Look what I’ve found! Eric Brighteyes by H. Rider Haggard, that’s what. It’s not an Icelandic saga in the strict sense of the word, but it’s one of the best introductions to the sagas. Haggard wrote it in 1890, so it’s not old (well, it is, but not by the standards of the sagas, some of which are over 1000 years old). He was an avid reader of the sagas and patterned Eric Brighteyes after them. It’s easier reading than the sagas and gives you a nice feel for them before diving straight into the Old Norse. Incidentally, I love the Gutenberg Project more than words can say. I’m so glad someone started it up, or I would’ve. 😛

Yesterday we gave Simba a bath in the old horse water trough and went to see the North Carolina Symphony play at the arboretum because it was free. The symphony, although the bath was cheap too. Both were fun, and I think someday I kind of want to take a bath in a water trough, but I have no idea when I’d have the opportunity.