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muddle in style

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Emerging from Muddle...

We observe Bern O’Shaughnessy’s seasonal calendar, which declares Muddle to begin December 26 and last through the first two to seven days of January. (We sort of have trouble pinning it down.)

(During Muddle, we have trouble just transitioning between paragraphs.)

Traditional Muddle is observed by staying home, eating leftovers, finishing opened bottles, wearing bathrobes or the same sweatpants, and not shaving. Seasonal colors are brown, maroon, warm gray. In our house it is celebrated by getting lost for hours reading books we’ve probably read two or three times already.

You may be thinking, That describes my whole year.

Orthodox Muddle calls for personal hygiene every third day.

(A brief rundown of some of Bern’s seasons may be found here.)

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... and entering Bearings.

By the time Bearings season commences, we’re good and ready.

Those who in the past have felt an urge to make New Year’s resolutions will take to Bearings. We drink lots of water and experiment with adjustments to our exercise program, meditation practice, nutrition, and sleep. We ratchet back on consumption of media and inebriants. We try out new styles of list-making. Colors are azure, silver, and white. Bearings runs until Robert Burns’s birthday, January 25 by which time we’ve had all the virtue a body can stand.

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surname in quality

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Dog-eared: Fitzgerald’s The Last Tycoon.

“Writers aren’t people exactly. Or, if they’re any good, they’re a whole lot of people trying so hard to be one person. It’s like actors, who try so pathetically not to look in mirrors. Who lean backward trying—only to see their faces in the reflecting chandeliers.”

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pleasant clubbiness

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Now this news.

Nog wrote, “Report in last month’s Journal of Applied Hysterics that hahophysicists at Catskills National Laboratory have claimed to discover preliminary evidence for a sixth, and possibly seventh, Marx Brother.”

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The Quiet Underwoods will soon make the rounds.

Bern says, “At 185,000 words The Quiet Underwoods is twice the size of most debut novels. This is not good. To many literary agents this is like you’re running a busy sandwich shop and a food service vendor truck shows up at your back door hoping to unload a truckload of marrow bones on you. One agent found it impressive and intriguing but not quite for her, and recommended I send my query and manuscript to another agent at an entirely different agency. I did, but I don't know, I wasn’t aware agents did this. Is this a joke between agents, passing off to each other certain manuscripts, like white elephants?”

fine madness

Blake's emended Tube Map of Hell
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earlier notes
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