A River Runs Through It. Plus: I Hate Making Things

Yesterday evening after meeting Friend Gerry for a few beers at Sharp Edge, (and after he loaned me a nice Soviet book on how to learn to read Russian), he escorted me down to Space Gallery where Friend Katie was hosting a "preview party" for Cosmopolitan Pittsburgh, which is a big annual fundraiser for the Pittsburgh Cultural Trust.  The whole affair was a little more "yuppie networking" than I usually roll, but there was free wine and yummy snacks, and this happened:

Belly Dancing.  Sweet.

Today started off nice and productive.  First things first: I wrote a somewhat lengthy blog about Crime and Punishment which I published on my other blog.  You should read it here.  I also wrote a second quick recipe blog that I've schedule to post Monday there, wherein I muse on the proper preparation of mushrooms.

I also read Norman Maclean's A River Runs Through It, which Friend Mark J. lent to me, as it is one of his favorite books.  The language was straightforward and elegant, while the narrative was oblique.  Maclean's appreciation of the natural world was moving.  I found the depiction of rural, small-town life sad -- the tiny, constricted theater in which the problems of Maclean's brother are enacted seems airtight and exitless, making a turn away from those problems impossible -- but that could also be an opinion inflected by my own unhappy experiences in small-town living.  In any case, I must return to the adjective "elegant" to describe the prose, particularly those scenes in which Maclean details the art of fly fishing, the sermons of his father to his sons, and the times in between which Maclean encounters his brother.  The writing is at its weakest when Maclean's brother, Paul, is in the scene: the descriptions of Paul's addictions and weaknesses are blunt and obvious where the rest of the book is delicate and careful.  Perhaps that is because it is true what Maclean writes: that he did not understand his brother, and could not help him.  Years later, in recounting the story, it is clear Maclean still does not understand, and so cannot help Paul's character become clearer through craft; whereas other characters are rendered deftly and briefly, Paul, although often present, remains an obscure presence in the book, as though seen only out of the corner of the reader's eye, and tinged with a kind of menace for that.  But these are small notes of discord within the otherwise beautiful narrative, corresponding to the discordant notes of Paul's life.  It was a lovely book, and I understand why Friend Mark J. likes it so well.  It sort of made me want to fly fish, right up until the moment fish killing becomes necessary -- I think I'd throw my trout back.

Otherwise, though, today was frustrating.  We're trying to get ready for my birthday party tomorrow night, and Ted put me in charge of getting the Battleshots board ready, after he put the hinges between the wooden boards.  I wish he hadn't, because I hate making things like this: things that have to be precise.  My board was off by 5/16ths of an inch or some ludicrously bullshit amount, and so then the grid didn't line up ... frustrated, I finally had to turn the project over to him to complete.  I'm all for things like crocheting cupcakes and drawing pictures, but if 5/16ths of an inch makes a difference, I'm not your girl; this is why I love to cook but hate to bake.  Making everything just so is tedious and frustrating and counter to my nature.

Ted was also frustrated by my imperfect grid.

So, anyway, to sum up: go read my blog on Crime and Punishment at S&S Blog.  I recommend Norman Maclean's A River Runs Through It.  And here are some cute pictures of my cats, including one wherein Floyd got his head stuck in an "empty" container of sour cream, after he and I shared some Doritos for lunch.

Chief is in a box. Kitties + Boxes = Happy

George is hiding and you cannot see him.

NOMNOMNOMNOMNOM. Then he had to clean all the sour cream off of his face.