In these days of Hamilton mania, I remember how Gore Vidal's version of Aaron Burr informed me sleep would become a precious commodity at an advanced age. Consciousness of internal organs and aching joints in the middle of the night are what I remember about the novel thirty years on.
As my parents aged, the number of condiments in their refrigerator mushroomed. Why on earth did they need four kinds of mustard? Hmm. In the middle of the night I realize my fridge holds three.
How did life get so complicated? When did there become so many vegetables? Why does kale taste like grass clippings + styrofoam packing peanuts? And why have I never figured out how to make charts and graphs?
My former supervisor was a graph artist. She could make Venn diagrams and splatter graphs and info graphics I could almost understand and could have hanged over the sofa.
© 2013-2016 Nancy L. Ruder