The other night (more accurately, morning) a strange addiction took hold of me, something called reading, but not just any ol' bedstand reading, because the cliche "a real page-turner" took hold of me, became incarnate, as I kept helplessly fighting the common-sense and body-demanding notion of cease and desist, turn off the light and sink deeper into the pillow, into the wee hours, sometime around 5 a.m., the birds not yet on speaking terms, and me afraid to know how bright it might really be on the other side of the bedroom shades, even figuring that I'm going to feel dreadfully bad if I go to sleep now and wake up at 6:20 when my daughter jauntily answers her alarm (I didn't; felt okay but jet-lagged).
What book would keep you riveted like that, you ask?
Lush Life by Richard Price (a requested birthday or Christmas book I am just getting round to; each book in its rightful time).
Yes, a real tribute to an author, that he or she could have such sway and magnetic force.
Either that or the coffee I drank before the Vestry meeting had mega-doses of Caffeine Plus.
Or just something weird going on in me and my brain (I love reading the latest stuff on neurology, realizing we are pretty darn hard-wired in compelling but just-beginning-to-understand ways).
Tip of my San Francisco Giants' baseball cap to Richard Price and Lush Life anyway.
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