Today I feel like I’ve stepped sideways from reality. It’s a day of wet hair, and mismatched socks. A day of muddy dogs and a muddled mind. The rain has been…I started to say “nice”…but no, it has not been very nice to me. Sound and fury, signifying nothing, a misty rain that can be measured in the barest fractions, if at all, does nothing to help the garden (except moderate the heat). Something came in on the thunderheads; something I’m allergic to (besides the mosquitos) came down in the mist. It’s one of those rare infrequent times when I have the choice of feeling wretched from allergies or wretched from “allergy relief” medication. In a day or two when things are better I’ll feel annoyed (my primary response to anything that even remotely resembles illness), but today I feel dreamy and headachy, as if I didn’t wake up and the people from my dreams are still with me, having faded to invisibility, but still pursuing. Damp, my dogs and I curl up under oppressive lowering clouds. The young dog is a Dunwich Terrier; I’ve promised him a story, but despite the appropriate weather for penning such tales, today is not the day for it. I need a clear mind with my wits about me if I’m going to conjure up such a tale. The caffeine from the tea hasn’t kicked in yet.
I’ve made a big pot of hot tea, Yorkshire Gold, poured it into my big bright travel mug, and spiked it with chunks of crystallized ginger. I’m not going anywhere. No, wait, I am. Not to Dunwich (despite the brave muddy terrier beside me), but to Barcelona. Today the third book of Carlos Ruiz Zafon’s cycle of dark fantasy set in Barcelona was released. The books can be read as stand-alone novels, but if you want to read them in the order he wrote them, begin with The Shadow Of The Wind, then read The Angel’s Game. The new book is The Prisoner of Heaven. I’ve mentioned him before in connection to the music he’s composed for his books. (Just checked his site: no music for Prisoner of Heaven, yet.)
Today I feel like I’ve stepped sideways from reality. Perfect timing, really, for curling up with my Nook and my travel mug and going back to Zafon’s Barcelona and the Cemetery of Forgotten Books. The irony, of course, is that Zafon’s books are unforgettable.