I’ve noticed that I play classical music through the deepest darkest parts of our Canadian winter. I like the atmospheric, sweeping sounds of the Russians and the Germans. It’s mighty and minimal. It’s isolated and seductive. It’s as big as the arctic, as big as the cosmos and here I am, floating on a little spec of dust in a farflung region of a forgotten world.
I notice too that my drinks get stronger, be that coffee in the morning, tea in the afternoon or mixed drinks at night. It wasn’t always like this. I’ve lost sight of what once was. I have flashes and fragments of memory, faded photographs if I care to pull them out and flip through them. I don’t. I’ll save that trip down memory lane for later.
I finished the third book in the series. The girl who kicked over the hornet’s nest. The first hundred pages were a slog to get through. The writer had a hard time reintroducing the (so many) characters and establishing how we ended up where we did for those who didn’t read the first two books back to back as I did. But then it got going.
I’ve alway been a reader but for about ten years, ending five years ago, I completely stopped reading. I’m so happy I picked it up again. An advantage is I’ve got a backlog of books that built up in my absence.
I’m currently reading a short story about a salesman who wakes up as a giant bug of some variety.
I’ve been writing here for two years now. But just like reading, I took about a decade off, did no diary writing at all from 2008 till about 2018. Weird. Not that this is related, but during that same time I had a falling out with my brother and with my best friend of more than thirty years.
I wonder who I was for those ten years away.