Sat Jun 28th, 2014
|10:04 pm - Summer Melancholy|
Yesterday was an 80s kind of day, meaning hot and sunny and dry, so I did an 80s kind of thing and went out to dinner and had two Singapore Slings. Alas, I am thirty years older than I was then, and my stomach has objected to the gin all day. Or maybe it was the (very indifferent) fries and gravy I had with my drink.
The restaurant was one I often went to, from the late 90s up to about four years ago. Its later associations are with Pratchett and To Say Nothing of the Dog, which is '08 and '09. (You can tell I always dine alone.) I haven't been there in recent years-- something to do with a run of bad service, being ignored by waitstaff and eventually leaving. My tastes have changed too; how did I ever stomach their pub fare? even the grilled cheese sandwich and bacon, the cheapest and simplest thing on the menu.
Then because it was a dry warm evening I went for a long walk, in late June's overdone honeysuckle and mock orange perfumery, that took me past Helen's place. Movers came this week, as per her dad encountered last Saturday in my travels, and now the house is all dark. But not empty, or at least not last night: the agent (I think) was removing the last tins of touch-up enamel used to gild this particular lily. A detached large house near the university and transit needs no $10,000 cosmetic redo with borrowed furniture and paintings, but they did that anyway. And hopefully recouped their investment.
In other matters, the following poem, which I gather is the Farewell to Meng HaoRan of New Zealand. (Or possibly even its 靜夜思, except that the appeal of 靜夜思 has always eluded me.)
High Country Weather
Alone we are born
And die alone
Yet see the red-gold cirrus
Over snow-mountain shine.
Upon the upland road
Ride easy, stranger
Surrender to the sky
Your heart of anger.
James K. Baxter
Mental associations being the random things they are, for me this doesn't reference Lord of the Rings (as it does for certain others) but an evening in early June last year, reading Guardian of the Dead on a rainy Thursday curled up on the sofa.
Evidently I found this poem, and made the same comment on it, way back in 2009. Memory is not what it was, even with ginkgo biloba.