Highlight of Sunday was listening to a city choir perform Handel's Messiah. Wonderful to take in the message and get into the Christmas spirit. The sopranos induce chills, as do those moments when the whole choir is singing the same words at the same time. Handel emphasizes the really key messages that way, it seems.
Car tire warnings seem proof of the questionableness of progress. Back in the old days if I was low on air I was blissfully ignorant and now there's the equivalent of a four-alarm fire on my dash when one dips below 24psi.
Had the elixir of a dark, smoky Edmund Fitzgerald last night. Man, but that drink sings! It's a porter of no wasted movement: you can smell it long before you taste it. The first drink is like a bass blues singer driving home the beat that singes your synapses. The other one was the delicious Bells Best Brown Ale; the adjective gives no lie (brown or best). Flavorful with a hint of sweetness. All-in-all surprisingly good, the second even better. It ranked a 94 on the rate beer scale, whereas O'Fallon's Hemp, Hop & Rye, which I tentatively was going to gift, rated only a 42.
Excerpts from the novel Let the Great World Spin:
What Corrigan wanted was a fully believable God, one you could find in the grime of the everyday. The comfort he got from the hard, cold truth—the filth, the war, the poverty—was that life could be capable of small beauties. He wasn’t interested in the glorious tales of the afterlife or the notions of a honey-soaked heaven.
he’d rather die with his heart on his sleeve than end up another cynic.
“That’s what I like about God. You get to know Him by His occasional absence.”
The men sat rooted like Larkin poems.
And a funny line from "Russian Debutante Handbook" by Gary Sheygnart:
“I am a writer-poet. No, a novelist-poet. But for a living I make investments. A novelist-poet-investor. Plus I do dance improv.”