Impatience

I continue apace with Mr Parks prostate memoir (Teach Us to Sit Still) which is no longer the Lincoln Tunnel of urology. Indeed his pains are not the precise rattling trains he initially suspected they were, which is quite extraordinary given the operatic sounding scale of them. How and ever the body is perplexing and impatience apparently does you in. Hence I’ll have to now refer to the book as Mr Parks impatience memoir.

He has just turned left into a meditation retreat in Northern Italy and frankly reading about meditation retreats is as painful as sitting through them and I almost became derailed during the gong, lip, breath, cross legged nothingness until two people had a fight in the garden & took off and a blessed salve in the form of a reference to Robert Walser. We can carry on now Walser has been invoked.

Mrs Dalloway is currently on the embankment resting. She was interrupted by Bertrand W Sinclair’s hysterical prose from 1922. Tomorrow I shall unveil his description of a storm in False Creek in this novel I tripped upon today. Calm down laddie is where I’d file it. But since we are hovering on the theme of impatience. We shall be patient and anticipate telling Bertrand to calm it down there.

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It’s 3 degrees outside, which seems v low. Tomorrow sunshine will return to us or so the headline promises. On va voir.