Out of Context

So I let last week come and go without having posted the My Discovery Mix. I liked the mix well enough (it started with Papa Was a Rolling Stone) but the lists each week aren’t what I thought they were supposed to be. I had been under the impression they were determined by what I had been listening to (like with what Spotify’s weekly list was back when that was what I paid for.)

Instead, each week was just a list for a specific genre, Motown one week, alt-country the next. Every Monday morning at 6:00am I’d find out what the genre de la semaine was. Whether I liked the music or not was immaterial, I wouldn’t be surprised to find that other listeners had the exact same setlist.

I may share playlists that I’ve actually made myself in the future, but if I do they won’t be a weekly occurence. What hasn’t changed, and won’t ever be stopped, is the actual soul of this blog: the daily Out of Context reading of one of my thousands of books.

The Spirit of the Border
Zane Grey

“Injuns marry white women sometimes; kill an’ scalp ’em often, but that’s all. It’s men of our own color, renegades like this Girty, as do worse’n murder.”

Here was the amazing circumstance of Lewis Wetzel, the acknowledged unsatiable foe of all red-men, speaking a good word for his enemies. Joe was so astonished he did not attempt to answer.

“Here’s where they got in the canoe. One more look, an’ then we’re off,” said Wetzel. He strode up and down the sandy beach; examined the willows, and scrutinized the sand. Suddenly he bent over and picked up an object from the water. his sharp eyes had caught the glint of something white, which, upon being examined, proved to be a small ivory or bone buckle with a piece broken out. He showed it to Joe.

“By heavens! Wetzel, that’s a buckle of Nell Well’s shoe. I’ve seen it too many times to mistake it.”

“I was afeared Girty hed your friends, the sisters, an’ mebbe your brother, too. Jack Zane said the renegade was hangin’ round the village, an’ that couldn’t be fer no good.”

“Come on. Let’s kill the fiend!” cried Joe, white to the lips.

“I calkilate they’re about a mile down stream, makin’ camp fer the night. I know the place. There’s a fine spring, an, look! D’ye see them crows flyin’ round thet big oak with the bleached top? Hear them cawin’?”