|12:40 pm - The dead days|
Another calm grey dry day, but brighter than before: like the best of civil November. The seasonal fantods withdraw for a spell, as they bloody well ought to when the weather isn't reinforcing them in the slightest. But their persistence bodes ill for any kind of retirement I might have had in mind (and that my twinging knees and back may be rooting for.) Psychologically I can take only so much of being left to my own devices without small people and perennial crises to draw my attention outwards.
Those with live-in partners don't have the problem. The reverse, probably, but not a solipsistic vortex.
Otherwise have been rereading what I own of the Parasol Protectorate, which is comforting feel-good stuff that, for no good reason, seems to belong to the same ethos as the Invisible Library. (Except that the IL is much less genial. Alexia has no reason for paranoia and Irene has only too much.) But as I go through the last volume to hand (#3), memories of my first reading start interposing themselves-- glimpses of a late summer Sunday afternoon down Spadina in a Burger King, a phantom impression floating just above the text. Distracting: I wish these temporal revenants would go away.