Wordlog
obscurum per obscurius
(Lat.) the obscure by the more obscure
(The Penguin Dictionary for Writers and Editors)
pièce de résistance
(Fr.) most outstanding item, particularly applied to the finest dish in a meal.
(The Penguin Dictionary for Writers and Editors)
miles gloriosus
not -sis; pronounced meel'-us glore-ee-oh'-sus; a braggart, particularly a braggart soldier
(The Penguin Dictionary for Writers and Editors)
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Booklog
 Vineland by Thomas Pynchon
Later than usual one summer morning in 1984, Zoyd Wheeler drifted awake in sunlight through a creeping fig that hung in the window, with a squadron of blue jays stomping around on the roof.
Collected Fictions by Jorge Luis Borges
In 1517, Fray Bartolomé de las Casas, feeling great pity for the Indians who grew worn and lean in the drudging infernos of the Antillean gold mines, proposed to Emperor Charles V that Negroes be brought to the isles of the Caribbean, so that they might grow worn and lean in the drudging infernos of the Antillean gold mines.
Finished
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"Lost In Dreams of Daily Routine"
posted Friday, February 9, 2001:
Lithely, I leap up the stairs by two?s. I feel every muscle compacting, contracting, easily. Reaching the landing, my breath is recaptured and I move about the house, resuming the day?s monotony with a certain sense of giddiness. No one knows my daily routine. Not a soul. I love to yell and scream and sing in the lovely baritone that wells up from my chest, often vibrating my vision ? all at the top of my lungs. No one has ever heard me, or at least that I know of (I would fall deathly silent at the first inclination of an evesdropper). The time I?ve spent alone this past year has done amazing things for me. I?ve reclaimed myself, in a way. I care for myself more. I?ve discovered my inadequacies, my faults, my downfalls ? and I?ve forgiven myself for them. A quick thought skips through my head and tags me lightly into laughter. Picking up a basket of warm laundry, I smile because I can make myself laugh, and because the the humid air that rises from the clean clothes smells good. I bury my face in a pair of jeans that aren?t mine, and wish that the owner were behind me, his arms around me. If only he could see that I was finally happy. I could make him happy now, I think to myself. I will make him happy, someday ? whoever "he" turns out to be. I suddenly wished that someone had heard me bellowing, seen me cavorting about the house. For a flash moment, I thought that I could run outside and yell to the world that I was ready, that I was filled to the brim. But I remained where I stood, because I realized that the more I grow, the more I have to grow, and I chuckled to myself. Setting down the basket of clothes, I picked up singing where I left off and returned to my laundry to be lost again in the calm seas of routine. «
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