Have you ever felt like Larry McMurtry did upon reading Brokeback Mountain that you wished you had written it and thought that you could've? I felt that way upon reading about Real Estate, a new book by Deborah Levy. The review is in this week's (August 16) issue of The New Yorker.
One thing that's all good about my crazy life is that I can and am living in my own house, with no one but my cat. Single men often live alone but when you see an older woman living by herself many people think it is a thing to be pitied or concerned about. I could not be happier this way. Of course, my whole family lives nearby and I have a constellation of local friends and neighbors. But I begin and end the day by myself, with my trusty cat. Thus, I've designed the space and rituals to suit my needs exactly.
I love my home's doors, of which there are many. EDelMar once said that my front door looks like Mrs. Twist's. It has six panels of glass in the top half and is finished in a natural wood shade. The closet and bathroom doors are also natural wood and have a lovely wood aroma. Some of the closets are lined in cedar for moth prevention. Their knobs are old-fashioned faceted glass and catch the light. The upstairs front door is heavy but not grand, with a hexagonal porthole window. Some of the doors have locking screen doors, so you can leave the door open to fresh air.
The other book reviewed is Wayward by Dana Spiotta which also sounds uncannily like my biography. So much so that I don't think I'll try to read it.