I woke at 3:30 am, after 8 hours of good sleep, to the sound of Scott Ross playing Soler keyboard music on his power harpsichord — the Fandango and an assortment of sonatas — which filled me with delight and promised a good day to come. Eventually I worked my way to my computer, and found one odd surprise and one very sorrowful one.
The odd surprise was a listing by Google of 5 books (well, 4 books and a long poem, but Google thinks they’re all books) it maintained I had recently viewed:
Margery Allingham, More Work for the Undertaker; Raymond Queneau, Exercises in Style; Herman Melville, Moby-Dick; Mikhail Lermontov, A Hero of Our Time; John Keats, The Eve of St. Agnes
I’d never been offered such a list before. I had in fact cited all of these publications (though I cited the Queneau in French and the Lermontov in Russian), but viewed the text of only two of them, the Allingham and the Keats (which I now can’t get out of my head, and bitter chill it was). But I’d also cited a ton of other stuff; I drop the names of publications (of all sorts) left and right. So why these five? [in a generic Eastern European accent:] It is mystery.
And then next in the e-mail queue from overnight was the news of Dennis Lewis’s unexpected death, which caused me to drop my posting plans for the day — including an attack on four death notices I’d been laboring on for weeks — and get this one item out immediately, while the news was still fresh with startled pain for me.
And that was my day, plus some sillinesses on Facebook I might adapt to this blog, as a respite from living in death on a daily basis — AU processional caterpillars and US tent caterpillars; and a visit to Genui Neska for some oking. And a lot of prep on a posting about several raunchy t-shirts (BLOW JOBS ARE REAL JOBS is a masterstroke of multisignificance), also a respite. Oh, of course, I posted my daily bit of savagery about President Putinitsa, gotta keep my hand in, ’cause something is happening, and you don’t know what it is, do you, Mr. Jones?
Leave a Reply