I feel so free these days. Well, except at work when a customer is yelling at me because of a mistake some other inept rep or salesperson made, but other than then, the skies are blue, my ships are sailing, and they’re coming into port laden with gold and silk from the Orient. A whole sector of my life (I’m ashamed to admit it was my own sector) has been discarded, but now I hardly ever think about it. Do I miss it? Too soon to tell. I keep saying “That’s it,” but in the past that wouldn’t last very long. This feels different, somehow. Immeasurably different. Not, “That’s it, until…” It’s just, “That’s it.”
On the home front, there’s a little bit of extended-family drama that requires me to sleep out of my house for the next three nights. Yikes. I guess I can manage, if it’ll protect my cousins.
I’m two-thirds through Wuthering Heights. This Heathcliff character is just one of the most hateful, shrewd, despicable sons-of-who-knows-who ever to grace paper in front of my eyes. The book gets better as more people die. I’d rather read Pride and Prejudice again, k thanks. (I realize the latter is from an earlier generation. In this case I don’t care.) And Jane Eyre was positively silly at times, but the characters were likable enough to warrant sticking with it. Naturally, Charlotte Brontë was careful to mention that she had no use for Jane Austen’s kind of writing. Apparently, neither did Emily.