This Weekend Was Wacky

container garden failure #1: cat eats chives

friday, march 26

Writing the first novel was easy. Was like it wrote itself. This novel feels like a lonely and arduous and sometimes insurmountable task. Right now I am cutting and pasting source materials and dividing them into categories. To get a better grasp of subject. Something has to happen before I can start writing this next section. When I go to check on the orchids I'm pressing in the Arcades Project, I find "...here the concern is to find the consolation of awakening." (from 'On the Theory of Knowledge, Theory of Progress.') Somehow, this seems particularly apt.

Also, the Life and Morals of Jesus of Nazareth by Thomas Jefferson, in which he creates a single narrative from all four gospels while stripping the story of supernatural elements like miracles and resurrection. Jesus just dies and is buried. Sometimes it strikes me that Christianity might have been alright if not for Paul (Christianity is the belief in resurrection) and the evangelist John (Jesus is god-he's not in the other gospels). And in John it's a very exclusive divinity and he disses all over doubting Thomas, who has his own gospel where the divine light, the ability to discover divine knowledge, is in each of us.

Then Croques-Madames for dinner which is a bread, bechamel, nutmeg, ham, gruyere sandwhich baked with a fried egg on top. I got the recipe from a magazine. I am not going crazy buying House Beautiful. I don't thiink. The shelter of objects and furnishings functions as a sort of organizing principle.

The Thin Red Line. Terence Malick right up there with Werner Herzog in terms of unique directorial style.


saturday, march 27

More Arcades Project, Bowers Museum to see the mummies, planted tomatoes, watched part of Bright Star, found it sad. Everybody is keeping Fanny and John apart.


sunday, march 28

My lack of education as a poet. Missing huge chunks. Read a few pages of Keats' Endymion, then switch over to Otho the Great, written with Charles Brown.
But I should finish Nightwood first. Nightwood, by Djuna Barnes, seems to me to be a novel about miserable people who either cannot or will not alter their own misery.
The wacky part is I think there are orcas in the pool and have to get out. Then I cut myself chopping leeks and walk through a screen door.
I was dating someone for awhile and we read the plays of Yeats together. At least I think we did. Irish foreground, stuff like that.