The writer was Russian, you’d never guess.
It’s been a week since a post, that’s what happens to brains befuddled by a head-cold.
A lot has happened though. Last weekend’s fabulous camping escape; crossing the Glyderau; beach day on Fairbourne with a new friend; school things, jarring recollections of the distressing side-salad incident.
There is a gap in the evenings. I am painting in that gap now, but it’s asking too much to expect the sleepless gap in the night to close. Would that it were so.
Paris, Je T’aime: utterly charming film, a series of short stories with the obvious backdrop. Some were more french in flavour, some less so.
Overall, they reflected the multinational city in a set of moving, sometimes tragic set pieces. A beautiful film.
New books to tease me while I finish the current one.there are too many here- nice problem to have. Brautigan has a fine voice, it’s a plain melody to listen to while reading.
Approved of by the English department, they want to use them to teach short story analysis. what a great conversation that started- went so far that we want to take kids up Yr Wyddfa in bad weather and take turns reading and thinking romanticism. No it’s nothing to do with boy+girl stuff, this is just as big but ignored by city folk. stop and listen to the quietness and it’s just as loud- it has a big voice.
Tide in. All the photos are in my memory, it was too wet to get the camera out this week. The grass, channels and clay-slip mud banks. What a contrast to those raw frightening but sublime summits of the last few trips.
Am I getting worse?