Bit of a chilly evening. Libraries back open -- in retrospect, attempting to carefully parse Brentano with the loud muzak, dim lighting and the scents and sounds of the Runyonesque characters in the public access space yesterday was a fool's errand.
Legit books in front of me, and waiting to dive back in. I've discovered that multitasking with random morning things (email, newspaper) helps to keep me from being zapped into unconsciousness by whatever force is sapping the life-force hereabouts. Especially when I sit down to write.
Yesterday's posting a bit cri de couer, but that particular organ had a few necessary things to express.
This morning, my spirit spoke one word: Pirin.
Had a very unheimlich experience reading Pynchon in the mountains of Bulgaria a few months back. Against the Day, which I had plowed through a few times, but all before the most recent trip. And then, reading it at the off-season ski resort, I realized that it was playing out across the same cities that I had been travelling through (the main plot, the Cyprian story, in the run-up to w.w. 1). Very uncanny, as I had the identification with the characters from before, and here they were showing up on the same roads and bridges. And then, when I read his latest (considerably shorter), I finished it just as the narrow-gauge rail reached the terminal late at night on 11/11. (Entirely coincidentally, the last time I rode that line, it was St. Andrew's Eve, and I was reading The Five Jars.)
Onward, somehow, and with vim and glory.