I don't know why I bother to write or why I think I should add to the world's supply of what - knowledge? information? thinking? drivel? There is so much marvellous stuff to read and not enough time in the world to read it all, who do I think I am to keep trying to contribute to the mass and why do I bother? This weekend I am reading four or five books at the same time. Wherever I am, and wherever I have put one down, I'm reading and they are all interesting books: David Rakoff's posthumous verse novel, LOVE DISHONOR MARRY DIE CHERISH PERISH; Luanne Armstrong's THE LIGHT THROUGH THE TREES; Paul Theroux's THE TAO OF TRAVEL; Donald Hall's UNPACKING THE BOXES (asked what it's about, he answered, "love, death and New Hampshire"); and Kate Atkinson's STARTED EARLY, TOOK MY DOG. I'm a bit behind on that one because I'm reading it only when I go down to the gym to pedal and I haven't been to the exercise room for over a week (too hot or too many guests - I bicycle at 5 p.m. but not if I'm cooking), and to tell the truth, I'm not liking it much. There are more books waiting for me, right at hand. I buy more than I can read, and faster. And my reading is not random; there is a purpose and a reason for every book and I try to be discriminate, choosy, even. Enough already. I think I told you that I stopped buying cookbooks and began to give them away when I realized that if I started then to cook my way through every cookbook I owned I wouldn't finish in my lifetime. That's true of my books, too, but I can't stop buying. I remember a friend saying he found it comforting to buy a book because it was almost as if he had read it - there it was on his shelf, giving off comforting vibes, becoming familiar. If only.

Time flies when you're having a good time, and even when you're not. I was musing yesterday about how people make assumptions about you based on appearance, age, bias and so on when my errant finger cut me off. That was my blog for the day. So here's a variation on what I was thinking: I was a fresh, moist widow when someone said to me that a new neighbour had moved in near me and we should be friends because she was a widow, too, as if we were three-year-olds to be shoved together for a play-date. We shared a common denominator, our widowed status, bound to bond us. I was annoyed at the time (anger is a common reaction during the first painful mourning period) but actually, my friend was right. The new widow and I did have a lot in common as new members of a sad sisterhood. Assumptions or presumptions are pretty accurate, I guess, like cliches, in common usage because they are true. So I suppose I shouldn't be annoyed when I receive a verbal pat on the head for being pretty sharp - "for my age". Or not looking too bad - "for my age". Or having lots of energy - "for my age". I don't really have lots of energy, for any age. I just jangle along gently now, like Satchell Paige. Who? See - you're so young, you don't even know who he was. The awesome fact is, I know a lot for my age BECAUSE of my age. You might catch up. All it takes is time.