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I’m having tasty Oishi tea. My cup is one of a dozen I bought on an impulse in a ceramics fair almost a decade ago.  Part of its base is fractured, but the pack rat in me epoxied it back, forming a pencil line. Actually I never used it until it broke during a recent move.

I’m feeling half nostalgic, half in tune with the present. Natalie Cole’s live Unforgettable last Monday made me miss my father. Today I am bracing for a day-long faculty meeting.

On my mind are work deadlines and online time over the weekend. There is a huge file waiting for me in the office today. On October 30th is Talk Like Jane Austen Day. It should be pleasant reviewing psychological relevance of her works while attempting regency language in post-modern speech for a day.  Here is a little peek into the mind of one of England’s greatest women writers –

If any one faculty of our nature may be called more wonderful than the rest, I do think it is memory. There seems something more speakingly incomprehensible in the powers, the failures, the inequalities of memory, than in any other of our intelligences.

The memory is sometimes so retentive, so serviceable, so obedient; at others, so bewildered and so weak; and at others again, so tyrannic, so beyond control! We are, to be sure, a miracle every way; but our powers of recollecting and of forgetting do seem peculiarly past finding out.

Ruth hosts

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