Both of us are not feeling well. Some sort of gut bug, the symptoms of which you can imagine. It’s no fun to be tethered to a certain room in the house, but here we are, welcoming early June a few rungs below peak flourishing. Whenever I have the crud, I reach for the comfort of books. We are lucky to have two splendid bookstores a block apart downtown. Today we took a micro-adventure to one, Country Bookshelf, but had to leave in a pinch, if you get my drift, and each of us came home empty handed. The emptying, it turned out, continued further.
I wanted to buy at least a dozen reads, some classic, like A Farewell to Arms, some modern gems that I’ve already read, like The Bear, by Andrew Krivak (a favorite of mine), The Old Ways: A Journey on Foot, by Robert Macfarlane (walking being a topic of fascination), a recent addition to earth, A World Appears: A Journey into Consciousness, by the maestro Michael Pollan, and some collections of stories and novellas, by Irish writer Claire Keega…
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