In Current reading, Irish Mist, Local projects on August 21, 2014 at 7:44 am

A cruel game. Your privacy well protected, you join a small gang of like-minded ones. Better yet, under the guise of a gang, you make multiple hits on someone’s blogs. Sometimes, the multiple hits raise an idle question mark in the blogger’s mind, and  no more. At other times, they disrupt, disorganize a train of thought. Petty annoyances, sometimes. Disturbing, at others. Mindless, the way automated messages are, popping up and mimicking human speech.

Meanwhile, you do your best to maintain the common courtesies of human contact – on the street, in the shops. Hit barrages of automated messages while seeking answers to your deficient phone service (the messages register on the computer, but the phone is inoperative.) Meanwhile still, you attempt to move forward in revisions, racing the calendar and the clock as the unpaid holiday period draws to an end. Unpaid gave you the luxury of free time. Some luxuries are irreplaceable.

The reading of Julian Barnes’ Levels of Life no longer qualifies as current, since I completed it in one sitting, yesterday afternoon. Loss, grief, sorrow, absence – not as soppy, maudlin, violin-drenched soap opera. As the tangible/intangible reality of a presence remembered in every fiber of your being. Living with loss.

The book (brief, a total of one hundred and eighteen pages) is divided in three sections : The Sin of Height, On the Level, and The Loss of Depth.

Now, of course, besides completing this revision and attending to all the rest, I must read more Julian Barnes. Ergo, I must earn some money. Ergo, I must…, then I must…, after which I must…, and so on. Time. Irreplaceable.


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