Monday morning and I’m listening to the late Robin Gibb of the BeeGees as well as snatches of the late Donna Summer — a season of elegies for disco divas. I wasn’t into ’70s disco or ’80s pop much and nobody could have been more surprised by the Abba revival than I was. But lovely music, in retrospect.
Went out in the early morning sunlight and shooed away wild guinea fowl pecking in the back garden because they are fat and lazy from too much new grass after rain and my small dogs might catch one. The Great Dane doesn’t catch anything.
Steaming quinoa for lunch after reminding myself how to do it properly. Couscous gave me trouble for years because I wouldn’t read the instructions on the packet. And I don’t know I ever quite got polenta right, it takes so long before the yellow porridgey stuff pulls away from the side of the stove! By then my arm has fallen off.
Moved to find this reflection on memory and the Resurrection from one of America’s most thoughtful and subtle thinkers, Marilynne Robinson:
There is so little to remember of anyone — an anecdote, a conversation at table. But every memory is turned over and over again, every word, however chance, written in the heart in the hope that memory will fulfill itself, and become flesh, and that the wanderers will find a way home, and the perished, whose lack we always feel, will step through the door finally and stroke our hair with dreaming, habitual fondness, not having meant to keep us waiting long,
And here, a memory — Robin Gibb singing Saved by the Bell.