These Hours, This Day
Nov. 10th, 2017 11:30 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thisnewdayI've been reading Dennis Cunningham's The Hours, a few minutes at a time. Ha! See what I did there? Thought so. And I truly love his writing. It's like reading Woolf's Dalloway had she been, perhaps, mildly sedated as she was writing it.
It's, I dunno, accessible and sad and strange without the manic outpouring of images and feelings, the frenetic jumping between narrative points of view. I like it, I do, for all of its sadness and not quite aimless interior wanderings. Or wonderings. It's all wanderful, one might say. Oops, I did it again.
Anyway, I'm gonna have to accelerate things a bit because the LPL book club, which I regretably missed last month, is moved up a week due to Thanksgiving.
I'm not worried yet, I may still be able to salvage the upcoming one because I read the book, J.D. Vance's Hillbilly Elegy, earlier in the year. It's only 250 pages and the style, the voice, is much more casual, much less dense, and the narrative stream much less intricate, than anything I've been involved with recently.
And today, well, nothing until the granddaughter's soccer game this evening, and that isn't mandatory or customary or even casually expected.
Aside from that, a few estate things, the loose ends of a life now ended. Which is sad and depressing but quite mandatory, a task better not left to someone so incredibly busy with her own family and life as my second daughter.
So, almost noon, I'm hydrated, medicated, and fed and now must get dressed. The weather has turned cold overnight, snow has fallen, a light dustung only, and the temperatures will continue downward, they say, into single digits tonight. And so I'll dress in layers, as I used to when commuting to work on my converted mountain bike.
Except that now the layers serve only to keep an aging body warm, as I sit and peruse the catalog images of bikes and bell-forward mellophones and other things of a now-past life.
And also read the things that writers write, as I once did when I thought I might, someday, be one of them...
LPK
Dreamwidth
11.10.2017
It's, I dunno, accessible and sad and strange without the manic outpouring of images and feelings, the frenetic jumping between narrative points of view. I like it, I do, for all of its sadness and not quite aimless interior wanderings. Or wonderings. It's all wanderful, one might say. Oops, I did it again.
Anyway, I'm gonna have to accelerate things a bit because the LPL book club, which I regretably missed last month, is moved up a week due to Thanksgiving.
I'm not worried yet, I may still be able to salvage the upcoming one because I read the book, J.D. Vance's Hillbilly Elegy, earlier in the year. It's only 250 pages and the style, the voice, is much more casual, much less dense, and the narrative stream much less intricate, than anything I've been involved with recently.
And today, well, nothing until the granddaughter's soccer game this evening, and that isn't mandatory or customary or even casually expected.
Aside from that, a few estate things, the loose ends of a life now ended. Which is sad and depressing but quite mandatory, a task better not left to someone so incredibly busy with her own family and life as my second daughter.
So, almost noon, I'm hydrated, medicated, and fed and now must get dressed. The weather has turned cold overnight, snow has fallen, a light dustung only, and the temperatures will continue downward, they say, into single digits tonight. And so I'll dress in layers, as I used to when commuting to work on my converted mountain bike.
Except that now the layers serve only to keep an aging body warm, as I sit and peruse the catalog images of bikes and bell-forward mellophones and other things of a now-past life.
And also read the things that writers write, as I once did when I thought I might, someday, be one of them...
LPK
Dreamwidth
11.10.2017
