Opening the first pages

finally, reading "Reading Lolita in Tehran." In Thailand of all places.
and I remember who gave it to me and how much
I love her that she would send me a book, a yard
of patterned fabric for my birthday, and how I just love her in general. Very much,
that sincere and utterly clinging friend of mine, Michelle.

who looks better in my clothes than i do.
who won't let me clean the dishes because it makes her feel like a bad houseperson.
who constantly wrangles me into getting ice cream even though she knows the "break" is more for her than for me.
who taught me how to be honest.
who taught me how to live from my being.

The author writes lyrically, a 'painterly writer' and michelle lives this way. she lives paint.

I read the book and I want to be in the northwest with her pregnantness, talking about it; and taking in her profound insights that make me feel like mine were wrested from a 5th grader.
Only a miracle could make that happen but while I wait for that, I jot down another addition to all the things I want to do and places I want to see in my life.

Number forty-three: see Tehran.