For me, kinetic writing is the sort that is libidinously exciting, and leaves you feeling almost physically bereft of the characters at the end of the book. The non-kinetic may be very intellectually and aesthetically stimulating, but it doesn't do that. Kinetic writing issues in the fan impulse, and the non-kinetic doesn't. This doesn't map onto literary / genre distinctions very well, but I think that "genre" writers more often aim to excite their readers in a kinetic sense, and "literary" types often self-consciously avoid it. But I don't think it's anything to do with quality as such. Scott is nearly always kinetic, and Nabokov hardly ever is; Joyce rarely is, Dickens quite often is.
2. It gets dark too early now. The wrinkle of this decade is that I don't like walking after dark, and I'm guessing that's down to dry-eye, cataracts, not being able to see stuff on bumpy sidewalks, and allergy-related balance problems. Better in shoes or boots than sandals, also better if I start walking in light and get into the swing as it grows dark. Rather bad if I've been reading at Starbuck's and then start home. Which is sad, because I like reading at Starbuck's.
3. Tearing through Parasol Protectorate and very much liking Lord Akeldama. Alas, I also have a new Higashino Keigo in Japanese, a 500 pager. Because Japanese books have no description in the library system I take potluck (can't even guess by title because it's in romaji.) (Yes, I could google, but I actually like potluck.) This one starts at a memorial ceremony for a suicide, happening at the man's bankrupt small factory, with everyone speaking kansai-ben, and was looking to become a total domestic downer until suddenly it seems we're in the middle of the Kobe earthquake. May still be a downer, but we shall see.
4. Came home yesterday to find the gutter (street gutter, I mean) full of purple plums and something vegetable that looked like a tennis ball. Couldn't think where it all came from, and then remembered the sound of chainsaws that morning and these guys carrying branches up the street to some tree-cutting company's trucks, that weren't able to park right next to whichever house they were working at. Plums must have fallen off branches, and like my plums, were rock hard even at this late date.
I'd noted guys as possible cherry-tree pruners, but not if their cleaning-up is so deficient. Being me I took my plastic garbage pail down the street and tidied it all up. This after trimming my wild hedge with clippers, because shoulder won't let me hoist the electric one. Thus I call myself virtuous, and plan an epsom salt bath tonight.
5. Those saintly Buddhists who endure decades of imprisonment have said the thing they were most afraid of is that they'd come to hate their captors. I merely hope I can make it to mid-September without hating everyone. Time was that was 'make it to Labour Day'; but this year the worst starts after Labour Day.