I was having a good hair day. I wore my glasses again, they seemed appropriate for dusty book stores. My leggings touched the cold linoleum when I knelt for a better look and the shop owner talked sports with some guy so I just sat on the floor where they couldn't see me and shopped for books like they were groceries, hungry and with a list. The bottom shelf always has the good ones.
Sometimes I'd just let my finger land. When asked, I'd say I'm a writer but this year I'm a student. I move a stack. Reading what I've forgotten, and the writers who inspired them and the writers who inspired them. "I'm raising readers, too."
I got caught up in Midnight in Paris while I knitted all weekend. Like, I watched it about six times. And then I'd grieve in a weird spot -- my life that lives now instead of 1920's Paris. But I know, I know that it would have been an early death of me then. Living now saved me from being lost forever, if I'd been a gal in any other time. I don't think I'd have been able to refuse its allure. I barely made it out of my own era. I still want to dress like that though.
Last night I took the back roads and I think about that One Way and no longer see it as a highway. For sure it's more scenic than that.
-- linking up w/ just write