I spend so much time throughout the day ruminating and then I come to write it down and it’s evaporated. Poof! Like that. My mind is a blank canvas…I have no thoughts.
No, wait, it’s coming to me…Oh no, lost it again. Well, ho hum. Today I listened to some lovely Senegalese children’s songs while taking care of two snotty babies. I can’t believe how I can totally tolerate all the random fluids from my daughter but how I get super grossed out when a baby who’s not mine wipes her nose on my shoulder. It’s like – ewww! get your snot off my shirt!
I’m reading a book by John LeCarre. The Honourable Schoolboy. It’s about spies and journalists and Hong Kong. It’s amazing how many books are written about writers. Or maybe I’ve just read an improbable string of commonly themed books over the past year. The World According to Garp by John Irving- a book about a writer. La Loca de la Casa by Rosa Montero – a book about an author. Therapy by David Lodge – a book about a TV scriptwriter. The Bridge Across Forever by Richard Bach (a book about himelf, a writer, writing a book). All randomly chosen/found/the only English book available and all dealing with writers or writing. What have I read that’s not about writing? The Far Pavilions by MM Kaye (Indian and the Raj), The Rains Came by Louis Bromfield (India and racism), Moon Palace by Paul Auster (New York, madness, youth). The Golden Spruce by John Vaillant (Canada, logging, madness) I haven’t had time to do a book report on any of them, but I’ll maybe get round to it someday. Not.
