From my kitchen window: the moon fading off to the right; to my left, the sun applying fresh lacquer to an old stone facade dripping with tendrils of ivy. Below the window: birds chirping in the stand of black locusts that screen the bedroom and office windows.
Life getting organized in the new setting. I visit home decorating sites for ideas, then devise my own lamp shades. I open the front door: the dog races over to the neighbor’s house and whines for her three small buddies to come out and play. Yesterday, I tore up a tired old textbook in classical Greek and pasted the pages on what serves as a coffee table in the living room. Discover in the process that every modern fable in the Occidental tradition was known to the Greeks. Also among the excerpts: bits from Cloud Cuckoo-Land. Nothing from Aristophanes’ The Frogs. Pity.
Meeting my Guinean/Ivory Coast friend this morning – the boy who trekked across Africa, managed to survive the crossing and land an apprentice position with a local butcher in this town*. We’ll work on his French reading and writing skills from the Volubilo offices; the Social Center closed down for the August holidays.
Story: this morning, the characters – and I with them – are in better spirits than their circumstances warrant. Moods are odd creatures – like wind or sea currents. There’s a reason or even a long historical list of reasons to them. They come and go. How to capture some of that in fiction.
In this morning’s Nouvel Obs, I see a Jim Harrison title translated as Grand Maître. Look it up. The Great Leader: A Faux Mystery. Will I splurge and buy? Afraid so.
Querying? Having pasted up pages of rejections on a piece of office furniture, yes, I’m giving some thought to it again.
* His true wish was to become a baker, except the butcher treated him kindly and the baker didn’t.