Watched a good part of a documentary on Cirque Romanès, last night. At one point someone speaks these words: “L’art du cirque, ça n’est pas de mettre un masque, c’est de savoir l’enlever” (The art of the circus isn’t about putting on a mask, it’s about knowing how to remove it.)
If I owned a TV, maybe I’d drown in the scattering of attention ( programmed, and deliberately so). Brief visits to Facebook and news sites suffice. The grandiose, the stultifying, the gruesome, the grotesque, the sublime, the stupid, the funny, the heart-breaking – all there, and more. A little bit goes a long way.
Started reading Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park last night. The first fifty pages. Already, I sense a basic difference with Pride and Prejudice, for example. There’s a lot of barely suppressed anger in Mansfield Park that cuts quite deep. (I skipped the forty-something pages of introductory remarks. I’ll read them after I’ve formed my own opinion. Society. Who says what to whom and how.)
The local church bell strikes eight. Monday morning. Morning news/weather/traffic/stale jokes, canned arguments and pre-packaged opinions streaming on radios and TV screens. I wake to the sound of the garbage truck down the hill, and the dog sending discrete reminders six-thirty is late enough already for a wake-up call.
Monday morning. Shoals, rapids, tidal pools, backwaters, still ones, the drip-drip-drip of a broken water pipe, the hissing of the moka pot on the stove.