I've successfully fought off a rather savage case of the Mondays. Spirits have fluctuated a bit, generally high with just the sometimes affectionate sadness that lingers when the world is dead and dormant like it is now. It is six o'clock and I am still at school, but I'm happy enough I guess. I may have another long day this week, but not as long as this one, and I got most of what I needed to done. Right now I want to read some Hemingway. Maybe I'll head to Borders and read "The Snows of Kilmanjaro" or launch into A Farewell to Arms. I like his simplicity and his imagery; it provides a most welcome retreat from the ice and cold, obsidian world that turns hostile with any wind.
The world grows cold and sometimes connections are hard to come by. Matt got a dog, named Journey. She is neat.
From the new novel (He Had Lost God) due this year, hopefully:
He left the restaurant and headed west, past the KFC where he would eat dinner, over the railroad bridge; he paused at its apex, watching the track, empty of trains, off into the sun and cloud speckled distance. He stood that way for several minutes thinking I wonder where they run. I wonder how many trains pass under this bridge each day. Each year. But these questions were not intended to be answered, he felt they were unimportant, and he moved on, not thinking of much, watching the ponderous, blown clouds promenade east on just the feather-breath of a wind, until he reached the gates of the park. He made his way over to the bench and sat down and took his pipe from his pocket. Then he remembered that he had run out of tobacco. I’ll have to stop by the druggists on the way home he thought. He watched a pick-up game of basketball, remarking at how many people were in the park today, and then he remembered that it was Saturday, and from everywhere, as if this realization had manifested it, had created it, came the smell of meat cooking on grills. He inhaled deeply and smiled, very gently. My, this is a beautiful day he thought. A boy and a girl who looked to be in their late teens moved by, quick, on rollerblades, holding hands and laughing, and he thought it again: my, my this is a beautiful day. And then he began to cry.
The world grows cold and sometimes connections are hard to come by. Matt got a dog, named Journey. She is neat.
From the new novel (He Had Lost God) due this year, hopefully:
He left the restaurant and headed west, past the KFC where he would eat dinner, over the railroad bridge; he paused at its apex, watching the track, empty of trains, off into the sun and cloud speckled distance. He stood that way for several minutes thinking I wonder where they run. I wonder how many trains pass under this bridge each day. Each year. But these questions were not intended to be answered, he felt they were unimportant, and he moved on, not thinking of much, watching the ponderous, blown clouds promenade east on just the feather-breath of a wind, until he reached the gates of the park. He made his way over to the bench and sat down and took his pipe from his pocket. Then he remembered that he had run out of tobacco. I’ll have to stop by the druggists on the way home he thought. He watched a pick-up game of basketball, remarking at how many people were in the park today, and then he remembered that it was Saturday, and from everywhere, as if this realization had manifested it, had created it, came the smell of meat cooking on grills. He inhaled deeply and smiled, very gently. My, this is a beautiful day he thought. A boy and a girl who looked to be in their late teens moved by, quick, on rollerblades, holding hands and laughing, and he thought it again: my, my this is a beautiful day. And then he began to cry.
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