The new diary that starts tomorrow. The old diary is still live but my head has moved on, from blue to red. A final sweep of the appointments and notes of 2008 elicits two things of worth.
Gauguin said: "I love Brittany and find there the wild and primitive. When my wooden clogs resonate on the wooden ground I hear the muted, matte and powerful sound I'm looking for in painting."
The other is all the Japanese-ness of Monthly Dominant Things to Do. I think they mean Priorities for the Month.
At the same time I've given myself a deadline by which to revisit the novels partly or wholly unread for the year. They provide only questions and unease until this the final paragraph of The Road which is perhaps an uncertain hope:
Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which culd not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.
Can we just all know this and commit to acknowledgment, or are we collectively the boy at once idealistic and hopeful but ultimately helpless in his Okay?
I'm walking round Pywells facing Lambs Valley: a reverse D depending if you start nearest the iron bridge or the Haines's. Later my speedo tells me that it's 5.6 kilometres. My ears tell me that Interpol is somehow the best partner to the pea green soup between me and the mountains. Ironic, given it's music made in the most city city in the world.
Noonie thinks that the Flying Museum is not grammatically correct. It makes me think of Harry Potter. But yes, it should be Museum of Flying.
Gran tells me not to let "them" throw her books out, and then she asks me to peel her prawns.
Before Christmas, on a holiday Monday at the marble shelf in the fuschia room Tobias Wolff talks of his character Anders:
He has been so immersed in the world of books and language, that so far from putting him closer to reality, which is why we go into this game in the first place, it's removed him from reality. He doesn't even understand that he's in danger. It's all a kind of word game, in a way, it's something all too familiar to him. And like so many writers of my acquaintance, he's constantly running a little crawl in his mind, a little critique of the language around him and the ways in which people do things around him, the patterns they fall into, and he's sneering a little because he's forgotten it's real, that there's an actual life going on out there. And of course he is corrected.
Corrected by a bullet to the brain, which is the name of the story.
Gauguin said: "I love Brittany and find there the wild and primitive. When my wooden clogs resonate on the wooden ground I hear the muted, matte and powerful sound I'm looking for in painting."
The other is all the Japanese-ness of Monthly Dominant Things to Do. I think they mean Priorities for the Month.
At the same time I've given myself a deadline by which to revisit the novels partly or wholly unread for the year. They provide only questions and unease until this the final paragraph of The Road which is perhaps an uncertain hope:
Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which culd not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.
Can we just all know this and commit to acknowledgment, or are we collectively the boy at once idealistic and hopeful but ultimately helpless in his Okay?
I'm walking round Pywells facing Lambs Valley: a reverse D depending if you start nearest the iron bridge or the Haines's. Later my speedo tells me that it's 5.6 kilometres. My ears tell me that Interpol is somehow the best partner to the pea green soup between me and the mountains. Ironic, given it's music made in the most city city in the world.
Noonie thinks that the Flying Museum is not grammatically correct. It makes me think of Harry Potter. But yes, it should be Museum of Flying.
Gran tells me not to let "them" throw her books out, and then she asks me to peel her prawns.
Before Christmas, on a holiday Monday at the marble shelf in the fuschia room Tobias Wolff talks of his character Anders:
He has been so immersed in the world of books and language, that so far from putting him closer to reality, which is why we go into this game in the first place, it's removed him from reality. He doesn't even understand that he's in danger. It's all a kind of word game, in a way, it's something all too familiar to him. And like so many writers of my acquaintance, he's constantly running a little crawl in his mind, a little critique of the language around him and the ways in which people do things around him, the patterns they fall into, and he's sneering a little because he's forgotten it's real, that there's an actual life going on out there. And of course he is corrected.
Corrected by a bullet to the brain, which is the name of the story.
posted by noonie at 7:59 PM
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