Sorry for the delay...bear with me.

Oh dear readers I have missed you this week. Okay, I haven't missed you all that much because I have been busy. I have done many a lovely and relaxing thing during the break with my parents. It will be my last family vacation while still living at home. I'm not quite sure what to think of this- it feels strange. A little sad, a little nostalgic. Mostly happy, though, as it was a wonderful vacation. We did all kinds of awesome stuff, like touring the College of William & Mary (which I simply MUST attend), shopping, swimming in a heated pool, going to the wonderfully gaudy Busch Gardens Christmastown, and walking the DoG (that's W&M slang for the mile-long Duke of Glouchester Street). Also, there was snow. Which was amazing.

I returned home on Christmas. It was raining the whole way home, or in the words of Luke Copeland by way of his brother, it was warm snowing. I made my mother play every CD I got for Christmas (there are 17) in the car. At home, we had our little prepackaged Christmas dinner. It was all quite quaint.

I don't have anything to make you think today, but I do have a few suggestions. One: see the film Avatar. It is beyond epic. Two: if you like French history or feminism, read Liberty by Lucy Moore. I'm in the midst of it now, and I find it immensely entertaining and interesting; it's nonfiction written like a novel, the story of the lives of several women from different walks of life before, during, and post the French Revolution. And three: listen to the album Dear Catastrophe Waitress by Belle & Sebastian. It's a few years old, and you've likely been exposed to it already, but it is so wonderful that I feel the need to implore you to hear it.

That is all, lovely readers. Until next time!

Reader's Corner

I did not go to my favorite used bookstore today, but if I had gone, this is how I imagine my day would have been:

As I approach the used bookstore, my eyes rest on many shelves outside its doors, full to bursting with books. It’s as if the store was so full inside that its doors swung open and the excess books flowed out like a flood. I push open the creaky wooden door and am at once transported from the bright, loud afternoon into a dimly lit, quiet, calm haven.

The store smells like history. I turn instinctively to my right and slowly move down a long aisle lined with horror novels. First the Stephen King books, H.P. Lovecraft, then Dean Koontz (or Arkoontz, or R. Koontz, I’m never quite certain). The aisle darkens as I reach the end. A sharp, tight turn to my left and a wider, brighter aisle opens up. This is one of the three main hallways of the store. It leads me to the art books. I perch in a dusty art-deco style egg chair, the only seat available. I’m sure it was purchased for $3 at a yard sale some twenty years ago. I crack open a heavy book that had been sitting on top of a stack on the floor.

The rest of my afternoon is spent with M.C. Escher, Georgia O’Keefe, and Vincent Van Gogh. I am absorbed by images of places I will never go and people I will never meet. Colors jump off the pages and subjects seem to speak directly to me.

Several hours later, I pull myself out of the egg chair and place the books back on the floor. I walk down the center aisle of the store, passing the checkout counter without buying anything, but feeling no guilt. Behind the counter sits a young man with blue hair and too many piercings. He gives me a smile and a nod as I pass bins of records. I open the wooden door and step out of my haven and into a world full of noise and devoid of art.