Once upon a time, I was capable of keeping a fluid, literate blog. I’m not sure what’s happening to my writing abilities, but they seem to be diminishing rapidly. I spend all of my free time reading or gardening these days, and so my space and context for writing is shrinking. I feel sad about it and yet incapable of forming a solution.
“Virginia is very punctual with the seasons,” Guion remarked recently, and I think he’s right. By the second week of September, we were experiencing that invigorating coolness in the air, the gradual turning of leaves, the steady growth of plants, the beginning of blooms on my cherished autumn joy sedums.
Emily and Wheeler told us at dinner that they had gotten addicted to yoga. “But I want to get addicted!” I exclaimed. I seem to be lacking this gene, which many people seem to possess, that enables them to become dependent on healthy things, like exercise. I was super-faithful to morning yoga every morning for a week, and then, suddenly, that extra hour of sleep became much more important than practicing the pigeon pose. I don’t know how to make it into a routine. Help.
I have been on a book-buying spree lately. My small calligraphy earnings largely fuel this habit (along with my predilection for expensive French face creams and buying shoes online that are too big for me). I put so many books on hold at the library that I’ve started to feel a little embarrassed, because I’m in there at least once or twice a week. This is a foolish feeling, and I’m sure it’s invented, but sometimes I feel like the librarians don’t like me. (I care too much about what people think.) So I’ve started to buy more books, because I can, because Thriftbooks is a veritable addiction, and because I can spend more time with tomes.
Recently added to my shelves, waiting to be read:
- Dead Souls, Nikolai Gogol (I already owned it, but the bad translation, so I shelled out for Pevear and Volokhonsky)
- American Pastoral, Philip Roth
- 2666, Roberto Bolano
- Consider the Lobster and Other Essays, David Foster Wallace
- Cloudsplitter, Russell Banks
- Independent People, Halldor Laxness
- The Collected Stories of Isaac Babel
- Just as I Thought, Grace Paley
- Bring up the Bodies, Hilary Mantel (currently reading Wolf Hall)
- The Collected Stories of Jean Stafford
- The Charterhouse of Parma, Stendhal
- Bleak House, Charles Dickens
I am so enamored with my family. I want to spend so much more time with them than I do.
“Great images have both a history and a prehistory; they are always a blend of memory and legend, with the result that we never experience an image directly. Indeed, every great image has an unfathomable oneiric depth to which the personal past adds special color.” — Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space