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comfort food
Sunday, 4 September 2005 11:37 pmA quick interrogation by stv, champion book-lender, this evening, revealed that I have not, in fact, read Murakami's Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, although he lent it to me several weeks ago. It's a book I'm dying to read. I could argue that I haven't read it because (a) it's somewhere near the bottom of the one-metre pile of borrowed books, or, more truthfully, (b) because I've lent it to my Friendly Psychologist, or even (c) because I've been flogging myself into reading Andre Brink, but in fact all these answers contain only a partial truth. Really I haven't read it because I've been re-reading my entire Ngaio Marsh collection, in strict chronological order, for possibly the eighth or ninth time.
I do a lot of reading. Several hours a day, at the minimum. But at certain times it's only the kind of reading that goes round and round, in well-worn grooves, re-reading old favourites that have little or no merit except that they're familiar, and undemanding, and safe. Clearly I am deliberately shutting down my brain. Praying Mantis, the Andre Brink I have just finished, was not really annoying enough to trigger this response; it balanced the nauseating political bit with some good folkloric writing. I am probably in retreat from something, possibly my entire life.
Random snippets of said life are not particularly alarming. It was a restful ten-day vac. I've finished the marking and preparation for tomorrow. It's raining again, and my garden is happy. My fringe is busy growing out, and has reached the stage where it's long enough to get in my eyes and need clipping back, which means it's going to look like hell for the next couple of months. We fed raclette to jo&stv and neil&karen this evening, although not to Emma, although she was present. It was good. Wine was drunk and much nonsense was talked. The evening degenerated into a spirited discussion on the comparative nature of consciousness, which is usually a bad sign. I have put up a web page for our book club, currently only standing at two months' worth of books, and badly in need of other members' reviews. The Evil Landlord has finessed the new TV into the wall unit, entailing much putting up of extra shelves and splicing of cables. I am somewhat hooked on Ultraviolet, which has won my heart entirely by being a cool British TV series about vampires which has run through three episodes already without actually using the word "vampire", or flashing any sort of fang. I am seduced. I finished the Brink and Brownlee reviews on time, and without resorting to vitriol, although I have cunningly submitted them under a pseudonym to avoid possible departmental eyebrow-raising.
Nope. Nothing too terrifying there. I am in retreat from not much. Darned life.
I do a lot of reading. Several hours a day, at the minimum. But at certain times it's only the kind of reading that goes round and round, in well-worn grooves, re-reading old favourites that have little or no merit except that they're familiar, and undemanding, and safe. Clearly I am deliberately shutting down my brain. Praying Mantis, the Andre Brink I have just finished, was not really annoying enough to trigger this response; it balanced the nauseating political bit with some good folkloric writing. I am probably in retreat from something, possibly my entire life.
Random snippets of said life are not particularly alarming. It was a restful ten-day vac. I've finished the marking and preparation for tomorrow. It's raining again, and my garden is happy. My fringe is busy growing out, and has reached the stage where it's long enough to get in my eyes and need clipping back, which means it's going to look like hell for the next couple of months. We fed raclette to jo&stv and neil&karen this evening, although not to Emma, although she was present. It was good. Wine was drunk and much nonsense was talked. The evening degenerated into a spirited discussion on the comparative nature of consciousness, which is usually a bad sign. I have put up a web page for our book club, currently only standing at two months' worth of books, and badly in need of other members' reviews. The Evil Landlord has finessed the new TV into the wall unit, entailing much putting up of extra shelves and splicing of cables. I am somewhat hooked on Ultraviolet, which has won my heart entirely by being a cool British TV series about vampires which has run through three episodes already without actually using the word "vampire", or flashing any sort of fang. I am seduced. I finished the Brink and Brownlee reviews on time, and without resorting to vitriol, although I have cunningly submitted them under a pseudonym to avoid possible departmental eyebrow-raising.
Nope. Nothing too terrifying there. I am in retreat from not much. Darned life.
