Smallhouse Log

Wednesday

Reading Rushdie's The Moor's Last Sigh, I can't help but wonder what it would mean to me if I hadn't seen Mother India and The Importance of Being Ernest. So strange to see both in one paragraph, it makes me feel well-read.

Speaking of things that make me feel good, I got some mail today, a strange thing, I'm glad Brian didn't see it (as he had already departed for Spain). I'm not usually happy with my mail -pre-approved this, student-loan that, welcome-to-the-neighborhood the other- but I received a postcard from the National Eagle Scout Association. Seeing as my awardedness, along with, say, my birthday, age, and current task-at-hand, is something I often forget, it was a pleasant surprise to rediscover that once, I did something, did it well, had a holiday dedicated to me, and am still remembered for it. My rational-nihilism groans at it, but the old desire to be remembered for things is still on me, it seems. A curious thing. But why else keep a journal, ne?

Other than that whole 'hearing myself talk' bit, I mean.

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