I've swallowed three books in the last two days. I feel like some kind of literature vampire. They have just slung words from page to brain.It is grand. The first was Times Eye by Arthur C. Clarke and Stephen Baxter. I enjoyed romping through time and space. The second was New Moon from the Twilight books, and last was Sunstorm by Clark and Baxter again. The Twilight books are such trash. Page turning compelling trash. So much of it is on emotion and feeling that you get utterly swept up. But there's so little description or depth or background. I found wanted more detail, a finer brush in the picure
Small parts of string theory and relativity have unravelled themselves for me. I love books that teach you so many other things in side their stories. It is alarming. It makes my brain hurt. But I feel alive learning about them.
I'm also building small dream houses as I prepare to move in with Tom. It's a welcome distraction from other things. We discuss paint colours and wonder round National Trust villages trying to justify £600 handmade bespoke oak dressers as investment pieces.
Our living room will be green. I'm channelling the dining room in Chartwell, where Churchill lived. Pea green, creams, whites, light browns. It's Tom's choice the green, and I see it like Joey's minibus in the Chalet School Books. Restful, calm full of people. The dining room black, white , shades of red and orange. The study/spare room shall remain as it is, as shall the bathroom in it's rainbow tiled glory.
But the bedroom leaves me stumped. I guess I shall fall back in literature for idea. Maria's room. in the Little White Horse is too whimisical, Anne's too girlish. Perhaps Emily's, perhaps not. Sometimes I want lilac, some times a torquoise, some times lime green and crimson. It's the blue that I keep coming back to. One wall blue, the other off white, with jewel toned every thing else, and white furniture. Bright and airy.
I need the space.