I rather like this as a title for a blog post (though not going to publish the post to which it belongs, and the title is not particularly funny without it). I wish it held the seed of a poem, but that is probably wishful thinking.
The cosmic omitted chicken post itself is quite dull. Instead I offer an image from today; the waves were best seen from indoors, while we absorbed wraps full of shredded duck (no relation).
… and a law unto itself. Having given mine over to the acquisition of facts, academic analysis, and sleeplessness, the arrival of a poem was unexpected. It is always fascinating to see what turns up; on this occasion there is a slightly inverted relationship to the day thoughts, as the poem is about going to sleep, but the reproachful tone is a considerable surprise.
There are a lot of people re-reading their Le Guin at the moment, and I am one of them.
Owing to my liking for frozen explorers, and The worst journey in the world, this is my favourite. Though there were distrait moments when I read the same page six times.
Down goes the labour of love, the elegance, the quietude, the pristine whiteness. Sometimes one thinks: perhaps keep one or two of the year’s best. But no; better to bundle them hugger mugger, and don’t look while you do it.
Dusty, disordered and down.
I’d had enough grim, so the next audiobook was selected for harmlessness.
It is true that Lady Flora Hastings’ fate was bitter, but the tale of George Eliot’s perhaps unladylike hand is innocuous, it was amusing to see Hughes get Darwin’s beard entangled in a compromise of the scientific principle, and the story of Fanny Cornforth is no more than louche. I therefore walked unprepared into the account of the Fanny Adams murder case which concludes the book. It’s not something I’d heard of before, and to be honest I wish I hadn’t heard it now, especially late in the evening; it needed quite a sweetener to take the taste away.
… with relief. Apparently some of the metaphors played 🙂 And the bits that wouldn’t go into the suitcase don’t seem to have been too disastrous, leaving me a respectable % – quite pleasing, considering it’s twenty years since the last bout of academic prose. On to the next…
though personally I am betting that there was one. The speaker is a character in Crime and Punishment, after all.
Perhaps the novel’s dramatic and emotional moments were compressed into undue proximity by the abridgement; I will only remark that the characters seemed to have a disproportionate quota of spasms, fits, convulsions, fevers, catatonic attacks, tremblings and faints, which had an unfortunate effect on one reader at least.
Outside the wind is picking up again; gusting to force 8, perhaps 9. 2018 coming in with a roar, and I hope we all keep our roofs on.
The trouble with choosing an essay title which includes a metaphor is that it generates a sort of Tristram Shandy of essays. Instead of Sterne’s digressions On Noses and such Shandean topics, I could have written On Beginnings that are Endings, On Endings that are Beginnings, On Association, On Uncanonical Canons, On Questions, On Mosaics Ancient and Modern, and, of course, On Metaphor.
I ruthlessly removed most of these essays from the assignment finally submitted, compromising somewhat with the expectations of the tutor (which I may or may not have guessed correctly), though I worked out some of the phantom digressions whilst daydreaming in the shower. Vestiges remain in the multiple drafts on file, and in the back of my mind. They will also show up later in my water bill.
Hating Harvard. Especially when you realise you have left all the commas out of your references. And you are already on page seventeen. And you have to put all the commas in at one in the morning.
I intend to watch old Poirot episodes end to end for two days straight. It’s what boxed sets were made for.
Today’s was almost monochrome. Somewhere far, far away the sun might have been shining a little.
Back home: oppressed by a sense of urgency, my progress became slower and slower and more and more reluctant.