Ah, once again my poor journal I come staggering to you through the haze of fatigue. The fatigue earned by another day of just sort of . . . tumbling about through life.
Went to see my sister perform in a Summerstock presentation of Oklahoma! and wished that kid had gotten a lead role. She really does deserve it. Even if she is told that she looks a bit like a serial killer. And maybe she does--but y'know? There's lots of good serial killer roles out there.
Been reading The Brothers Karamazov and I've decided that there's something really lovingly comforting about Dostoevsky. Something about his narrative is so sweet and wise and kind and yah.
The first thing I ever read by Dostoevsky was White Nights--and blimey, what an extraordinary experience that was. Because that story, in all of its wonderful insightful fabric, was so very much the sort of story I needed to read, was so very complimentary to my mood and most preoccupying emotions at the time, that I was gripped fully by each word, each taking me to the next fervently, even through my tears.
And since then, Dostoevsky has not ceased to take me, and he seems to speak directly to my heart.
And what shall tomorrow be like I wonder? I hope I can catch Trisa in the evening . . . if not, maybe I'll work. I'll prolly watch Fellowship of the Ring in the morning, which I rented just for the special features (and it was worth it), but I figure I may as well watch the movie itself too . . . I think it shall be the twelfth viewing for me.