That's the only one I'd recommend. I STILL think of that book -- Loyd (with one L only) and genetics and quince. Hell, I should re-read it.

In my head, they used to say "can" on TV, and then someone said "can and will" to sound more macho and now everyone says "will". I don't know if that's accurate, but it's how I reconstruct it in my memory.

Some British murder mystery or other I read ages ago had a police detective musing that it should just be "can be used, yes, against, maybe not", I think that must have been before the "if you fail to disclose something on which you later rely in court your defense will be compromised" that Law & Order UK makes sound so good. If that isn't boilerplate, it's a pretty stylish riff.

BTW, I am SO CONFUSED by barristers who are not Crown Prosecutors prosecuting cases on Silk. I'm going with it, because if there's one thing I know about English law it's that I probably do not know even one thing, not really.

Hah! I was just about to say that Kingsolver gets a forever pass from me solely on account of Animal Dreams. There are sentences in that book that I linger over just the memory of, like remembering each amazing sip of a glorious bottle of wine. And the whole thing... mmmm. Brain drunk.

Brain drunk.

Such a great way to put it! I've felt that way about a few books. John Dollar by Marianne Wiggins, Mariette in Ecstasy by Ron Hansen (I think?), and Beloved. Well, and Susanna Moore's early stuff, like The Whiteness of Bones and My Old Sweetheart.

I am not caught up on Under the Dome, but those characters are so earth-shatteringly stupid.

I am back in Washington for the rest of the week, training my replacement. I didn't realize it would freak me out until I got here. I know, rationally, that I am allowed to leave on Friday, but my hindbrain is in full-on Admiral Ackbar mode.

I am not caught up on Under the Dome, but those characters are so earth-shatteringly stupid.

Spoiler: They do not get less stupid.

Homeland, Bean Trees and Animal Dreams spoke of a world that was my native soup. I recognized the world of my first 18 years. I liked Poisonwood, but it lacked the instant recognition, obviously (not a missionary child here.)

I will always have a soft spot for writers of my southwest who can echo the smell of rain on the desert, the quiet stubborn poverty, the odd mix of culture and foods, the dust, the stunning stark horizons.

NM smelled so fucking good to me while I was there. I miss it. I don't fit in there anymore, Baltimore suits me best, but I miss it. It smells right, it looks right, the sun on my shoulders and the coolness at starlight upon the same feels right. But it isn't where I can live my days.

The stupid. It domes.

This bed might literally be the most uncomfortable thing I've ever slept on. I only know it's supposed to be a mattress because it's rectangular and covered in sheets. In all other aspects, it might as well be a rock.

My neck hurts, and the pain seems to have shifted from my right side to my left, and I am out of motrin. It's at the base of my skull. At least it's not as bad as the last time I somehow managed to do this to myself, where I had to cancel vacation because I didn't trust myself to drive safely because I couldn't turn my head left to check for traffic. But, jesus.

Is the effectiveness of ibuprophen proof that it's muscular in origin, and not some fucked up spinal issue? This last incident came on after the chiropractor, who, until now, I have never feared.