Finally reading The Killer Angels.
As I shut the book last night, I noticed that IJ was perched high on a table by my bedroom door, the better to both stalk and defend herself against her new roommate. They are evenly matched in size and number of claws, but it has not been an easy friendship so far. They are having deep philosophical disagreements, the sense of which I can only guess at.
I couldn't help but think, as she sat there, ten bayonets at the ready, that she was like Colonel Chamberlain, in position on Little Round Top. (Because my cat would definitely be wearing blue. Fighting for the rights of Her People. [She's black.] If'n they'd've let females fight back then. Or cats.)
I know it's like Pulitzer Prize good and all, but some of it's hard to stomach. Not the killing bits, the appropriative and interpretive bits. Still, I'm almost done.
Speaking of miscegenation, artistic and otherwise, this is what can happen when people from opposite sides lay down their weapons, or rather, when they combine their weapons into a sugary, percussive strudel. A watering down, in my opinion, of each song's strengths, but fun.
i'm a white writer. in new york. original, no? i've been blogging since october 2002. this blog picks up in october 2008, when i moved from DC to NY...(and then I moved to Maine in 2012)