October 17, 2010. Sunday.
Situation: Again, coming home from an all day’s work, night is falling, a big ball of sun blazing in our valley, seen from O__ C_____ Road. Ball kind of disappears when I’m coming through the McDevelopment toward the house. In the dim driveway Mway mills around, but Moi is opening the door, letting her in. “Oh, it’s you, “she says, seeing what must be my dim figure stomping across the porch. Inside, consider the lateness of the day, clock says 6:30, ask about walk. “Oh, you can take her for a walk.” Upstairs, change from work to walking clothes, aware of night approaching fast.
State of the Path: Can’t find birch branch, go back inside, can’t find it there either, resolve to do without, near pool, see suitable stick, a long one, much like the walking stick, more crooked. Must not dither. Seem out of breath, too much smoking and drinking at work? What seems like seed dust floats about my face as both sticks brush against goldenrod. No, I eventually realize, it’s gnats of some unknown kind, realize, just as stalk of fuzzy goldenrod catches onto a stick. Don’t quite make the maples, hear Mway barking in walled garden. What the hell, I think, if she’s not coming, I’m not going.
State of the Creek: Turn around, happy to go no farther than clearing. Bugs still floating, what the hell these things, Mway now approaching, sees me, knows to turn toward clearing, happy to go no farther too. Never see creek.
The Fetch: What the hell these things, these gnat-like things, all the way to the clearing, glad to get clear of them. Pitch crooked stick length of clearing. Mway fetches, and fetches, neither of us counting. Last toss goes into the “chokeberry.” Mway plunges into branches. I call it the last toss. What the hell these things, gnats with long wings, lit now in the moonlight. Back at porch, see birch branch on stoop step. Place it and crooked stick on bench, Mway snapping at them until they’re placed.
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Sorry about turning off the computer yesterday. Somehow I lost my connection to the internet, so I just shut the computer down. This morning Moi knew what to check and discovered my wireless adapter was disabled, so she reenabled it, and I hope everything’s working again.
Yes, that was disconcerting yesterday to find your computer turned off after you left the house, especially since we were in the middle of talking about my novel. And now I have to try to remember what I was going to say. Something in response to your quote from Baudelaire. I think it was this: “Novel” comes from the Italian for “new,” doesn’t it? It’s my perception that novelists – at least the brilliant ones – do not let themselves be hampered by the all-too-familiar things around them. So to go on about my plans, and how I arrived at them. I have my “where,” which I trust will eventually lead me to my “what.” For a long time, though, I fretted over my “who,” having only the vague idea from what little I knew about Australia that this should be a criminal of some sort, perhaps someone who had been arrested for a DUI. But these characteristics put me in mind of you, and I know you too well to write about you with any clarity. The same holds true for Moi, or your kids, or even, when I came down to think about it, someone like Barb Dennehy, Alma, or, yes, I suppose even the monster. I could only imagine poking away at the keyboard all afternoon and never being satisfied with what I wrote – the various smells I would be hard put to describe, the changes in eye contact that are ever elusive, the shuffling of feet that can’t quite be set down in words. Then one day, while I was roaming around your office, deliberately avoiding going on the computer to read your blog, I saw you had two books on your chair, Ellman’s biography of Joyce, which I read a long time ago, and “Miles: The Autobiography.” The two books were interlocked with one another, so some of the pages of each book touched the pages of the other. I immediately remembered that, in one of your last comments that I had read at the time, you had mentioned that these two men, both of whom you admire, never met each other – and yet now, here before me, their two separate lives (speaking metaphorically of course) were now in intimate contact with one another. This struck me as very strange – this difference between what can happen in real life and what can happen with language. I read a few pages of the Miles autobiography and discovered that the musician had had several bouts with the police, and I immediately thought that Miles Davis, or at least some character like him, might be the perfect “criminal type” for my novel. Then not long after this I noticed that the door to your bedroom was part way open. This is a very rare great opportunity, and right away I walked over to the door, pushed my way through it, and hopped on your bed. But as I was settling down, nibbling some tickseeds out of the fur on my paw, you wouldn’t believe what I saw on the bed next to your pillow: “Samuel Beckett: A Biography” by Deirdre Bair and, lying slightly askew on top of it, “Thelonious Monk: The Life and Times of an American Original” by Robin D.G. Kelly. Unlike the other two books, these weren’t opened and interlocked, but a sketch of the Anti-Joyce on the one cover was staring ceilingward right next to the photo of the musician on the other cover. Again, I remembered your mentioning these two men whom you admire as never having met in real life, yet here they were, their semblances adjacent to each other as if they were longtime pals.
. This set of coincidences – of coincidences upon coincidences – struck me just as if the Muses were banging the books straight upon my head. Here then, though I didn’t quite know how I would justify them all being together, were the characters for my Australian novel: Joyce, Beckett, Monk, and Miles. The idea further fortified itself in my mind when I considered that Joyce, whom I of course admired immensely myself, and Beckett would be Irishmen in a country populated by many Irish convicts or their descendents, and that the two musicians would also be criminals in a land of convicts (Monk, I assumed, holding as a musician the same status as Miles). Most important though perhaps, here were four persons I knew nothing about -- except what has already been set forth in books. MM.
By the way, your computer’s still not working very well. It’s awfully slow. I had a hard time posting these comments. And that was not you who commented above, but me. MM.
Sorry about the computer problems. I had Moi look at my computer again tonight, and after trying one thing out after another, she finally updated the driver for the wireless connection. Seems to be working better now. I’ll comment tomorrow on what you said here. Tonight I’m thinking about calling Fran (of Ned and Fran whom I mentioned a while back). Ned died this weekend – Wade heard from Fran the day he died, spoke to her for about an hour, and she was upset that we never visited Ned while he was convalescing from his operation. I’ve already tried to call Fran a couple times – either she wasn’t home (she doesn’t have an answering machine) or the line was busy. I don’t know why I’m mentioning this here – nothing you need to worry about.
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