I’ll be soaked when I get back to the appartment. I’m not about to complain. Fresher air and the regular gurgle of a steady downpour. I’ve opened all the windows at Volubilo. When I arrived, members of the local swim team were churning the water in the municipal pool next door. Now, they stroll by in groups of two or three, conversing with bath towels on their heads.
In the rush of things to do, I’d forgotten I’d taken the time to copy several email adresses on the contact page of my other account, so while actual emails may be lost in the transition, the links should regenerate quickly.
As for Louise Erdrich: sustaining such a level of excellence as that demonstrated in The Master Butchers Singing Club (and everything else I’ve read of hers)? A blessing for the reader. For the writer: the kind of experience provided by a Master class where the goal isn’t in copying someone else’s talent and range but observing how a great one both relaxes into the writing and stays out of the way so the characters can use every usable scrap that suits who they are.
Then, going back to writing from one’s own store of memories, sensations, obsessions, questions and quirks. The odd mix of gratitude and relief I feel whenever I read something excellent – there’s another swath of the human experience transferred to the realm of story. Not matter if the experiences are bleak or joyful. Reading something at that level puts me in a good mood.
In” real life” last night: three groups of circus people talking shop until way too late. I listen, aching to get home. Watch puffballs of white moths around the street lamps, glinting like swirls of gold foil. Then, poof, on some cue not obvious to a human, they’re all gone. Where?