Serendipious

I’ve felt the need to come here and do a personal post for days now and just haven’t found the time yet it’s a call I can’t continue to ignore.

My new job is going really well – I am frantically busy but happy, busy.
I’m also psyched about my upcoming vacation, we’re going to Mexico for a week!

Recently, my coworker S. mentioned some brilliant Portuguese writer to me several times, one I had never heard of before. The other day I found myself at Borders browsing the new fiction and spotted a misplaced book on the table. The book was brilliantly and simply white. The name of the author rung a bell – José Saramago, it was the same writer he had mentioned to me.

I don’t believe in coincidences – how was it that this book, Blindness (ironic, no?) – the one written by the man mentioned to me several times in a few different conversations came to land right in front of me, right in my path? I am not sure – but I picked it up and bought it with me and even the clerk validated my purchase by telling me how brilliant a book it was and then giving an extra 20 percent off.

It was meant to be and I hope that my mind is open enough to accept whatever message is within it for me to reap. I also hope I finish it before the movie comes out, which I heard is in the works.

Right now, I’m reading The Mistress’s Daughter by A. M. Homes, which I’ve been wanting to read for over a year now. Being a ‘lovechild’ myself, the title intrigued me, and the book is written so articulately and by someone so self-aware and intelligent that I’m disappointed to already be coming upon the end. I think it’s the author herself in the cover image of a blue-eyed, balck haired child, which haunts me. It’s the spitting image of my sister as a child and the same features her sons have – the china doll hair and skin, the alarmingly blue eyes and that sad haunting look.

The past couple of days my allergies have been so bad that my head feels I’m trapped under water, my ears are clogged, my nose is stuffed and head aches. What’s interesting is that I never had allergies when I was younger (except for dust) and I was very proud of that. Now I feel horrible and it’s upsetting to realize that it’s something as benign as allergies. The only respite I feel is delving into my books.

Peace,
Lit

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