floating · in · a · gravity-free · universe

Also,  the Canadian gov't clearly got a cut-rate bulk deal on breadline communist-era, Kafka-inspired passport offices, and had them shipped complete (including redtape and surly staff) to cities all across our otherwise friendly and efficient land. Although for some inexplicable reason, the surly bastards running my passport office have french accents. FIVE HOURS in various line ups - FIVE HOURS. All to go to the US of A for a business trip, where they no doubt have my name red-flagged and an orange jumpsuit waiting for me at the customs desk in Charlotte, NC.

BAH.

1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the next 4-7 sentences on your LJ along with these instructions.
5. Don't you dare dig for that "cool" or "intellectual" book in your closet! I know you were thinking about it! Just pick up whatever is closest (unless it's too troublesome to reach and is really heavy. Then go back to step 1).
6. Tag five people.

"she is sustained by her insatiable passion for reading...."
    Forced to abandon the novel Looks down in the gather-
ing shadow because of a production defect in her copy,
the young Sultana wrote to the translator, protesting.
Marana rushed to Arabia. "an old woman, veiled and
bleary, motioned me to follow her.In a roofed garden,
among the bergamots and lyrebirds and jets of
fountains, she came toward me, cloaked in indigo, a mask

If on a winter's night a traveller by Italo Calvino

Which, unfortunately, doesn't capture the spirit of the book at all, which is written to directly address you, the reader, and the path upon which you are set when you buy Italo Calvino's new novel, If on a winter's night a traveller, and the relationship between the reader, the writer, and the read. Of course, the damn thing assumes the reader is a man, but then it was 1979 and it was written by an old European guy, who may not quite have caught up with the times.

It is still one of my favourite books.

Not being a dedicated livejournal-ist, I don't think I know 5 people.... so I guess you are it, Jamie Q!

- God I'm bored - work is SO DAMNED SLOW today. Give me something to write about.

    -Write me a story with, hmmmm.... armadillos, leprosy, Timbuktu and a picnic basket.

- What? But those things don't go together at all!

    - So??

And this is what happens when you open things up to someone with a highly developed sense of the absurd. Thanks C!

Juniper and the Radioactive Picnic Basket

“Mama Mama get up!! Is it time yet? Is it? Come on, Mama!”

 Marigold groaned and rolled over heavily, a headache already beginning to form between her eyes as her daughter’s young voice pierced her sleep-fogged brain. Why, oh why had she ever thought that three mugs of elderberry gin were a good idea? And she had to take the kid on that damn hike today, in daylight of all things!

 Marigold stumbled to her feet, kicking quickly discarded clothing and pair of dirty underwear out of her path as she headed for the bath. Maybe a cold dip would do her good; she could have used one last night instead of.... of…. Marigold probed the black spot in her memory with trepidation. Oh hell. Instead of sleeping with her damn ex, that’s what. At least there was no evidence of him this morning; no sense messing up the kid’s head, having her think her papa was coming home.

 Twenty minutes later, dripping wet and shivering, Marigold stopped dead in her kitchen door, heart in her mouth.