mjj (flemmings) wrote,

'That series of named days'

Easter has never been a favourite of mine. In my youth it was the time of exams, and then in uni it was essays due, and now it's income tax preparation time. Also my relatives tend to sicken and die in April, which doesn't help; and of course, this is when I was packing up and coming home from Japan. A profound sadness and unease attaches to the season.

The weather doesn't help, moving from the sanity of winter to the uncertainty of spring. Granted, the end of March/ beginning of April in Toronto can feel as domestic as porridge, especially in a cold grey year when it might as well be November, but this is still by nature an unchancy season. The March sun is too strong and gives the world a Daliesque cast; equally, the washy cloud of a warm spell hints at Ensor-like horrors lurking in the thickening tree branches and the dirty disreputable garden mess newly emerged from the snow. (Bird corpses, dog poo, garbage rousted out by raccoons-- stuff like that.)

Though it's really not Easter I dislike so much as the Good Friday holiday. Which is All Wrong. *Monday* is the holiday day, and the only exception is the rare Friday July 1. (Christmas / Boxing Day happens in the holiday season and doesn't count.)

So with all this antsiness attached, it's probably not a good idea, when looking for Good Friday reading, to start Bogarde's West of Sunset, set in Los Angeles: a city which fantods me at any time of the year. Luckily it's written by an outsider, very much aware of his outsiderness: because insiders take Los Angeles seriously, and that can be fatal.
Tags: place, reading_13, rl_13

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