I’ve gotten into the habit of flipping on the CBC 1 radio in the mornings. 5 am is a pretty silent time (minus the ‘raaaaaaaaaarooooooowwwaaaaaaaaowwwww’ emanating from the peanut) in terms of brain function. I used to take solitary walks in the hushed hours of pre-dawn, but Rowan hates outerwear.
Anyway, they have been doing a series on hunger; talking to two different people who have experienced real hunger every day. One is from the Western world, the other from variating cultures around the globe. One woman, who grew up during China’s cultural revolution really caught my ear — ‘specially when she mentioned being shocked that eggs were sold by the dozen here in Canada. Lucky for me, she just so happens to have written a memoir.
It’s first on my wish-list, along with an heirloom copy of Alice in Wonderland (preferably with copperplate illustrations) and a copy of Sandman. Not that I should be adding to the books I have around here. Let’s not get started on the hardcover library of cookbooks I’ve been amassing. We’re meant to be downsizing, in preparation for condo life. But I have this sinking feeling about books lately. As if these are their last days, and I should be holding onto them for dear life.
Oh, printing press. When did you get so old? Your ears are hanging low, your hands be-speckled with liver spots and your hair blue. I’ll meet you at Denny’s for the early bird special and we can look over the Gutenberg bible one more time, before your number is up.