RID

[jawnbc]

I am restless, irritable and discontent. Hovering over the pity pot, not quite ready to squat. Pauvre Jawn.

In one week I'll be jetting to Hongcouver, away from querrelle. Towards something I love, away from someone I love. In every respect this makes sense to do, but I'm not happy about it. It being the circumstances that dictate to Max being here and me being somewhere else. Him here, me there. Oops, I'm coming down with a feeling--better switch to the brain.

Switched now. Whew, much better.

Have been reading Colm Toíbin's anthology of Oirish fiction, in dribbles and spurts. When I bought it--some months ago--my thoughts were:
+ Oirish, good
+ gay Oirish editor, good good
+ big, good good good

Size does matter. So last week I pried it open and dangled my toe. My impressions? Probably a definitive collection for its comprehensiveness alone. It starts with Jonathan Swift and meanders through to Roddy Doyle. Curiously, Toíbin's own outstanding fiction (The Blackwater Lightship made the Booker short list. Deservedly so) is absent: gotta love faux humility, Catlick style. Wilde, Joyce, O'Brien, O'Brien, Murdoch, Moore, Deane--they're all they, as are so many others.

But much of it's quite tedious...canonical, in the worst sense. Making it perhaps a good text for university courses, but I can't recommend the collection otherwise.

querrelle's just pulled up on his motorcycle (in his leather pants--woof!), so time to catch up and reconnect. A cuddle would be good. Tonight's my last Sunday at the Shift for several months.

I will not demarcate each and every "last" this week. I couldn't bear it.

Comments

[bookbear.livejournal.com]

I know that because I work in public schools and know a thing or two about head lice.
I'm just kidding. That's gross. I'd never get head lice.
The monthly scorching case of crabs, maybe, because I'm a fuckin' slut. But NEVER head lice. eeewwwww! That's so low-rent!