the unexpected

I had had a feeling about the cruise the whole while we were setting it up, imagining it through, rehearsing every detail possible.  The feeling was vague and strong that it would somehow not really happen.  I warned myself not to think so just because part of me did not want it to happen, while other parts said, oh, don't worry, it's not like that at all.  The unexpected was the stenosis returning; the cruise didn't happen, right, that deep sense was after all true.  The heart valve as the reason is what truly surprised us both.  

Satisfying visit with Dr Hill yesterday at Hanover.  A real doctor at last, the old style, familiar kind.  Took plenty of time talking with us, taking notes, reviewing the whole situation before sending us off for the blood draw, which was usual.  I regret I didn't take a photo of the big image of Joe in his fishing gear on the wall, a big digital image from the short film they made about him and Pie.  DHMC may have paid them something for that?  or maybe made a donation?  Not that that matters at all.  The photo so reworked it did and did not look like Joe.  More like the new saint's chapel icon.  This is how the saints were made centuries ago.  And still today.  We can all hope to go as quietly and sweetly as Joe did.  We used to joke in the manly manner about take me out in a kayak and tip me over.  Not exactly that but pretty close to it.  

Lots of haunting echoes in the dh building for me from 23 years ago, and yet because the doctor was so right I did find myself hoping we might get the valve procedure there instead of cmc.  But all the vibes suggest it will be a cmc event with deep repetition resonances there because I think it was on the exact monthly timeline pattern.  Alert in late summer, appointments, procedure in early December or so.  Recovery going for longer than planned out into late January.  At least this time we are not booked on that super long trip to Bali.  As splendid as the whole trip was in hindsight it is a shame I did not enjoy Bali.  Just so miserably humid I could barely bear it on an hour by hour basis.  

$58 to fill the Tiguan loaner tank all the way up!  On the way home over 118, 75 miles of gas left, traffic on the road stopped, cars lined up behind and ahead.  Could see some on the hill in the distance.  After a while cars turned around at both ends. We turned after someone driving away told us "power line down, no idea when the trucks will get here."  Back in Canaan for gas at the Irving and then drover through Grafton and Grafton Center, Danbury, then Bristol.  Twilight and tired by then.  Hill had gotten a beeper call when he was with him and we had a long wait there too.  Bela said she wanted a burger but no lights were on at the Big Catch so we sped by there.  Then she said she wanted to get another pita wrap at Yamas so that's what we did.  Got into the house with it just as darkness covered the sky.  Still feel achy and tired from the whole drawn out day.  Longer driving than I've gotten used to.  

The Destroismaison massage is a poor idea so will cancel that.  No matter how cool the name be.  What is "being tired" after all?  How can I have slept pretty well but not have slept well enough? What all does the body do when we're not conscious of watching what it is doing?  

Back to Priestley.  The plot with Nixey is now thickening.  He was up to no good and Dawson was young and uninitiated in such things.  Alington who he admires is somehow flawed but he does not yet know how.  Music evening at Leaton's.  Summer of 1913. 

As I read along I kept saying why does this book remind me of so much---even of Brideshead Revisited in some strange way.  Finally looked it all up  One year apart  Waugh's 1945; Priestley's 1946.  Old Catholic money and spirituality vs socialist, Yorkshire business and future prospects.  Still, the style of writing in and of itself, period perfect.  The language of mid-century post-war England. Very different, much alike in spite of themselves.  

Admit it, Obama's tower haunts us with the medieval atmospherics of San Gimignano.    

He and Michele visited the Borgo Finocchieto in May of 2017.  

google suggested I look at Knausgaard since I am missing Handke; also a Polish writer.  Also asked why I didn't like Fosse.  His work is poetic, mystical.  But for my taste the mysticism feels faked, borrowed, constructed.  Handke's mysticism feels more genuine because not worn on his sleeve.  

"This time the reason why you can’t see for yourself is because the essay was withdrawn before English-language publication, but this intimacy, this directness of contact, is what readers of My Struggle love. Somehow his writing, the total opposite of Fosse’s, was just as pure. Fosse’s is pure poetry, Knausgaard’s is pure prose.

The difference between lines and sentences, between poetry and prose in a technical sense, is simple enough, but that’s not the interesting distinction. Poetry, I came to see, is visionary world-creation, an eruption of transcendence; prose is communication, interpersonal, horizontal. (In Norwegian, fittingly, fosse means “waterfall” and knausgård means “hillside farm”; it’s the same name as “Hillyard.” Kierkegaard, also fittingly, is “churchyard.”) Prose shares, poetry transports. Prose connects, poetry creates. Only pure prose could have taught me the difference.

Damion Searls, the Daily’s language columnist, is a translator from German, French, Norwegian, and Dutch."  Paris Review 

However much I may not like it, The Disappearers will be a very welcome contrast with Priestley's book.  Of course I can finally dive into Kafka's The Castle.