The weekend, apart from a lovely dinner with an old friend starting a new life after the passing of her husband, and the accomplishment of laundry and dishes, has been pretty much a waste. The workweek left me exhausted, and Saturday, heavy rain the entire day.
It is not until 6am that I finally have any chance too write, but one takes what he can get, and has a glass of wine. Don't take work too seriously. How can you anyway.
A chance to read Knausgaard on Turgenev.
It is true, and learned from the highest of minds, that life is suffering. And I have no idea how much more suffering one's own little stake of life will see.
Talented people are very lazy. And they are quiet. They do not wish to exacerbate, but rather get home safe and find a moment conducive to the oddities of their own.
No one can ever grasp the talents hidden in another being, and as with oysters, and creatures, who cannot speak to us directly themselves, I prefer talents raw, as if out of a great unrehearsed peasantry, spiritually minded so as to find their native gifts. Who taught the bird to sing? Who taught me to be a good barman? In all its confusing and exhausting and contentious angles.
At six in the morning I am tracing the Buddha's thoughts back to the initial irritated and craving amoeba, seeking a sense of purity, as if looking for an excuse out of such a Hamlet-show of a job. How much it costs, personally. And yet, there is something to be said for it. It is, as cruel as it is, real.
Alas, there is no better way, to meet people and to get their stories. And I, a member of the intelligencia, must look to a likened style of understanding, the eye of an anthropologist stuck in himself. Of course, this was sad, that there was no better way to come upon people in their own habitat, to get their stories,
As a venerable musician explained to me, as I asked him about where he grew up and what it was like back then, the main thing was that you could walk. You could be home all day, stopping to look at things, that no body, as if trying to protect a neighborhood , would stop you, thinking you were weird.
In a dream I go back to the old hillsides where I grow up. It's summertime, the corn is high, the green is at its most impossible richness. And now it's getting closer to dusk, but the light is strong, and making shadows to show the depth of these valleys and all their pockets. I must be getting on soon, dinnertime. I linger, taking photos with my phone. I cannot stay long.