A mosquito, thoughtfully, bit me near my eye and I tossed a bag of sea soil all over myself. Blurry-soil-between- the-toes good name for a racehorse.
Mary Beth Knechtel’s book The Goldfish That Exploded made my Sunday. I laughed v loudly. I will share some snips shortly.
Today I made a serious investment in a spirit level (?). It shows that everything in this apartment is crooked except one Tin Tin picture and a few pieces of art that my partner hung up.
I’ve just had a frustrating, nay terminating, experience with Robertson (?) screws. To the bloke who insisted they’d change my life, au contraire. My relationship with Milton, Ontario has been irreparably damaged.
Is it a co-incidence that when such proclaimers call you “dear” they concurrently give you the wrong sized screw for the bloody anchor.
Screw Robertson, I am a Philips woman again.
I’ve gotten some helpful perspectives on Cabbagetown from other writers. I haven’t asked permission to quote them, so I’ll leave their names out for now. One explained fans of the work were “in awe of his daring in describing sexual violence, the nobility of poverty, the depravity of men, and savagery of casual misfortune.” Another writer suggested to visit some other texts of that time and to look up the back catalogues of Press Gang. I am glad for these exchanges because it gives me other ingredients to consider when I am reading, so thank you to those writers.
To read out is something I find satisfying, more so than writing out. I suppose I prefer to have whole units from which as reader I can inter-relate or read in opposition. Personally I don’t want to write to or from other writers, I want to write into whatever I am writing, a pneumnatic “into” that might shift or throw it’s own debris up. It’s also perhaps challenging for the reader because it insists on a claustrophobia, but I enjoy challenge as a reader and have incredible faith in readers (over publishers who make decisions about what we read, hark the digital age and the end of such limits!)
Some mornings are very noisy, there will be mornings someday when I will miss this noise.
I’ve just sown 72 seeds inside the new home made Greenhouse this indicates either long summer optimism or a 12 month “darkness” gardening cycle.
I’m thrilled with the new Greenhouse, it was an entirely hair (hare?) brained scheme, that would not be fit for public viewing but it’s a neat private world of coaxing and comfort.
Documentary on the history of video games. Pong & friends.
“Heartbreak has an English middle-class reticence when it comes to the deep exploration of feeling. There is a sense in which the novel rationalises this defect by taking refuge behind its stiff-upper-lipped characters. We are told that people are in love or despair, rather than seeing this in action.
“….The world of this novel is not a pleasant one. It is a sex-obsessed place full of beautiful, genetically faithless people who talk mostly about art and shagging when they’re not saying ‘fuck you’. Friendship in this hermetic sphere is ‘one friend betraying another friend to a third friend’. Happiness and self-fulfilment are for the most part outlandish fantasies. And, as Schopenhauer remarked, there is no altruism. It is a high-minded cliché of contemporary fiction that love is doomed, social hope bankrupt and virtue wet behind the ears. In this context, the most outrageously avant-garde novel would be one in which someone was happy for a change.”
Read this review over at the LRB and considered while reading it Terry Eagleton may well be onto something. Then began to imagine the people who inspired it and boiled the kettle.
small
3 beans.
How much a splinter hurts.
“He’s a very bright man so he talks in these half riddles.”