Harmony St, New Orleans. 4:30pm
I need something of an adventure. I need a story, the sort I read as a child. All giants that snatched children from their beds, or witches that held conventions in posh seaside resorts. I'd settle for that particular witch who used to live in a house perched on chicken legs and rode a round in a spoon driven tea cup. I need a prince in blue pajamas tending volcanoes and a solitary rose.
Dour little girls secret;y resurrecting gardens or boys setting off hundreds of miles down river. I need imaginary, a transport.
I need to use my imagination because so much of what I read, or am offered to read, is entirely too possible. Deplorable people doing deplorable things and in turn being hunted down by more baddies, groups of baddies, corporations of baddies. No, thanks. I get enough of that in the newspaper or on television.
Often times I have to make due with poetry, which sometimes affords me the luxury of suspending my disbelief (If it's really good, my beleif). And I don't mean classical poetry, but rather poetic language. A little romanticism. The last book I read was about the ghost of a man, bound to his house, who passes his days observing the generations of people who move into his house (David Long's The Inhabited World). A little hokey, but it did the trick. Still A dive back into kid-lit may be in order. Perhaps I will actually manage to find a new Philip Pullman out there. Recommendations would be fantastic.