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READIN
READIN started out as a place for me
to keep track of what I am reading, and to learn (slowly, slowly)
how to design a web site.
There has been some mission drift
here and there, but in general that's still what it is. Some of
the main things I write about here are
reading books,
listening to (and playing) music, and
watching the movies. Also I write about the
work I do with my hands and with my head; and of course about bringing up Sylvia.
The site is a bit of a work in progress. New features will come on-line now and then; and you will occasionally get error messages in place of the blog, for the forseeable future. Cut me some slack, I'm just doing it for fun! And if you see an error message you think I should know about, please drop me a line. READIN source code is PHP and CSS, and available on request, in case you want to see how it works.
See my reading list for what I'm interested in this year.
READIN has been visited approximately 236,737 times since October, 2007.
🦋 Revision!
Another stab at the story of Laura and Peter's day in the life.
Morning
Laura's wishing Peter would just
Drop this false persona, would just
Break this patterned silence
Where he's built a lonesome castle. Now she
Cries out in the morning when she
Wakes and finds him gone. She wishes
He'd reach out and touch her, wants
To hold him in his grief -- she wants to
Have back these long years that
she's been waiting for his voice. Peter's
Walking in the garden, where his
Winding paths are laid,
Blooming crocus in the springtime, blooming
Hostas in the shade, he wanders
Down the road to town, but nothing's
Open Sunday morning, now he
Rubs his eyes and wonders if he'll
ever find his home.
Expectation conquers knowledge and the
Evidence of senses; what I
see and hear and feel
I'll never grasp, I'll never find;
For all I cogitate and pray I'll never
Sit beside your bedside, seeing
Gauzy patterns traced out
On the page of wounded time.
She gets up, groggy, runs the water,
Steaming up the mirror, she hears
Peter downstairs in the kitchen,
hopes he's making coffee,
Laura's tired out, she didn't sleep well,
Combs her hair and squints and in the
Mirror she can see the look of
anguish on her face.
She's downstairs with a cup of coffee,
Looking quizzically at Peter,
Peter's solemn face that just
can't seem to meet her gaze.
A question's in the air and they both know it, but the
heavy silence keeps their lips held tight; keeps
Heavy thoughts drawn back to yesterday.
Peter in his sweatshirt and his
Groggy eyes, unshaven, takes the
coffeepot that's sitting
On the table, on the table.
He mumbles some reply to Laura's gaze, he smells the coffee,
Smiles weakly, frets; he says
The weather's beautiful outside this morning,
springtime Sunday morning, says
we ought to take our bikes up to the Glen Trail, take a ride.
 
Afternoon
Laura's in the garden, weeding,
Smiling, legs are aching
From the ride up Union Hill to Chester
fresh now in her memory;
She bends down, and the shadow
Of the mountain laurel's branches
Writes — asemic scripture sliding off her shoulder as she moves.
Peter's sitting reading in the sunshine, drinking coffee,
Now his book lies open on the lawn,
he's watching Laura working,
Dancing slow across the garden,
Yellow t-shirt smudged with topsoil,
Dancing slow across the garden
through the sunlight and the shade.
Evening
Laura's by the bedside, catches
Peter's eye, she smiles and asks him
what's he thinking, work tomorrow, ready for another week?
He yawns and stretches, smiles back, already dreaming some,
he mumbles, says let's take some time off in July, he'll maybe
take some days around the 4th... and fireworks already going
off in the air around them
posted morning of Sunday, July first, 2012 ➳ More posts about SOPOSP ➳ More posts about Writing Projects ➳ More posts about Projects
And thanks, Jorge López, for suggesting I change Lauren's name back to Laura. Good call.
"Once we’d accepted that nothing was ever going to happen in Tristram Shandy, our expectation that anything ought to have started to seem stodgy and humorless." Publisher's Weekly features Tim Kreider on reading Sterne with his mother, during her convalescence.
A newly-translated early work of Calvino's: Into the War is “hand-to hand combat . . . against autobiographical lyricism.†(Thanks for the link, badger!)
