Which are really just Mondayish feelings, those ho-hum, here we go, more work waiting and dishes in the sink, dog hairs on the sofa, more coffee please, kinds of serial sensations.
It rained, not quite summer rain, colder than that and soaked the garden, dripped from eaves, made the paths slushy. An indoors, vegetable soup weekend. I scratched around and took out all my Alice Munro anthologies, Dance of the Happy Shades, Selected Stories, Runaway, The View from Castle Rock, paperback and hardback, well-thumbed and often read, cherished books. I don’t know I’ll do a complete reread this summer but I will dip in and submerge every once in a while. Radiant, tricky, unforgettable narratives. If you want a story to start with, the New Yorker has put up Munro’s The Bear came Over the Mountain from 1999.
Working on a poetic revised record of quotidian realities, transformed because we pay attention to them. For me this represents the everydayness that cannot be valued enough, the ground from which the creative rises. This, from Lyn Hejinian’s experimental autobiography poem My Life:
As for we who “love to be astonished,” there are fences keeping cyclones.
Might be covered, on the ground, by no distance. She spread
her fingers as she spoke, talking of artifice, which extends
beauty beyond nature. Perhaps it is only a coincidence. For,
as Nietzsche put it, “If a man has character, he will have the
same experience over and over again.” In the morning at eight
I sense the first threat of monotony. Give a penny with a
knife. Candor is the high pitch of scrutiny. I was tired of
ideas, or, rather, the activity of ideas, a kind of exercise, had
first invigorated me and then made me sleepy, so that I felt
just as one does after a long, early morning walk, returning
unable to decide whether to drink more coffee or go back to
sleep. The uncommon run of keeping oneself to oneself.