I thought I’d give you a stream-of-consciousness blog today as it seems the only appropriate response to everything that’s going on, a babel of voices, a cacophony, a cough-coughony of voices about what’s really happening, what should be happening, is the government too harsh, too lax, harsh in the wrong ways and the wrong places, who’s missing out, who’s saying horrible and unforgivable things, is it all really a hoax, are we making a mountain out of a molehill, when is there going to be more testing, are we doing enough testing, is there too much testing (methinks the government doth test too much) please donate to this cause and this cause and this cause, please sign our petition about the scandal of, it’s a disgrace that, why haven’t they done more of, what about, and what about, why don’t people, what are the police doing, are they over-zealous, how I keep getting inexplicable bursts of nerves, jabbing me in the stomach, jangling by nerves but I don’t know why but something in the hinterland of my thoughts has clearly twangled a nerve like a passing breath on an aeolian harp, I should make a note of how often I check my phone, phone check, fact-check, another of these ugly two-headed verbs, unpleasant but useful I suppose, that incredible feeling of joy when you nail something, put exactly the right word in exactly the right place, evening descending, day’s at an ending, ‘thank god it will soon be dark’, one piece of marginalia that writes a whole culture, shivering and farting in the moonlight, The Name of the Rose, good film but I suspect Umberto Eco is a pretentious pr*** all post-modernists are, trying to weave something out of nothing, the Emperor has no clothes, no close of this sentence, my turn now, ‘remail’ for 20 points, glass of wine soon, signal the end of the day, at six I shall go down and have dinner, dinner for a sinner, I wouldn’t like to get you on a slomo slowboat to China all to myself alone, how I haven’t done any Greek today apart from puzzling out a few words of Sappho, how she writes in a different dialect but it’s translated into Attic, how that always makes me think of lonely writers in a garrett,
There. And that, my friends, is the best review I can give you of Ducks, Newburyport. 997 pages of that,
and I’m only on page 681,
Kirk out
Sarada Gray 