Rest Stop

I'm not much of a multitasker when I drive--I don't even use my cell. And I certainly won't advocate shooting pictures (or anything/anyone else for that matter) while driving. Rest assured, I was at a standstill in my lane of traffic when I picked up my camera, traveling west headed into St. Louis.

I am currently breezing my way through some reading on Jacob Lawrence, Aaron Douglas, the Cotton Club, Prairie View Co-eds, the Savoy and having a splendid time of it. I have been assiduously hunting for this 1924 essay by Alain Locke which is hard to find--not helped by a missing box of microfilm. Via email, the New York Public Library was kind enough to assist me, letting me know where else to go. It's good to know I can stump the best of reference librarians at a university library. In any case, all of this reading and all of the music I've been listening to (Fats Waller, Ellington, James P. Johnson, Armstrong, Basie) and thoroughly enjoying reminds me of all the moments growing up when my mother tried to tell me stories about famous musicians and I, being the truculent teen I was, refused to listen. Sorry Mom. Because I have to balance all of this enlightening research and reading with something more...um...earthy, I'm about to finish McCarthy's The Crossing. Stark, desolate, and downright sad tale. I normally revel in tragedy (Beast in the Jungle, House of Mirth, Tess of the D'Urbevilles kind of tragedy), but I am hoping that the third book in this trilogy is a wee bit more uplifting.