Spring in my step

Strolling along one day he decided he was too egotistical ever to be collateral.
And smiled.

Things That Are Right, Two of n: Reading Poetry

I like reading poetry - it's sort of meditation distilled into words. I like the way the activity shapes my brain into certain paths, and I like the way I feel afterwards. The last two books of poetry I read were two collections by Liz Lochhead, Dreaming Frankenstein and The Colour of Black and White. I love Liz's work, performed and on the page, and I'm glad she's the Scots' Makar, that she speaks for us.

I tend to read collections a poem at a time, last thing at night, and let each sit with me in my dreams. Which makes for some interesting dreams, I can tell you.

The episodic nature of the poems, though, frustrates my need for narrative. I tend to read for something between 30 minutes and an hour (or three, or four) before sleeping, and even the chunkiest of modern poets don't stretch out that long. And if I read more than one at a time, their effect is diminished, not cumulative.

I've found something that satisfies both impulses, though, and I'm grateful, not for the first time, to a bull-necked Aussie for keeping me happy in bed.

I've read a few translations of Dante's Divine Comedy. Or, to be honest, I read all that juicy stuff about the inferno, and then stall halfway through purgatory and never reach heaven (uh huh, and my after-life may well impersonate art, I know). I've always read it almost as an academic exercise, though, and not for pleasure.

Clive James has changed that. There may be more scholarly, more linguistically faithful and more literary translations (there must be - he says there are in his introduction) but so far I've never read anything that's so much fun, that reads more like a novel that's propelled forward by every line, and in every line too.

I came across the hardback in Waterstons a couple of weeks ago,and it's been my constant companion (though I haven't taken it to work). If I'd bought the Kindle version I'd probably have saved some money, but I wouldn't have the physical pleasure of hefting it around, the small joy of watching my bookmark progress through the pages.

At the moment I'm alternating bed time reads between this and the Jack Reacher of the moment (on to number 17, I'm afraid, and looking forward to the Dresden books already).

It's a bit late to recommend this as a beach companion, but I think it's not a bad book to go with us into Winter and be our guide.

Coming Up For Air

So last week had lots of stress, good and bad, and not enough sleep by a good way.
I won't say too much about completing the proposal I was working on. By Wednesday I'd just about settled the extra requirements the salesman had agreed to with the customer. Wednesday at 4 p.m. he came back with a whole lot more.
So that made another of late night shifts necessary, and an internal review that was a lot hairier than it had to be.
It also meant that I didn't have half time to spend with slobberpuppy and hubby as I'd have liked. I did manage to take them to Mother India's on Wednesday and The Chip on Thursday, and we did manage a little whisky drinking on Thursday night, and the Ashton Lane Pub Crawl (Short Version) but I wish I'd had time off, or a weekend to show them some more of the city, and maybe dragged them off up to Argyll. Ah well, next time... And I have an invitation to visit them Hawaii next year, which I won't be turning down. They were lovely company, and I couldn't have wished for better guests.

Most of the weekend was spent recovering. I had a meal out on Friday night (my friend Jenny aqgain, at the Saigon Bike Shop (or whatever it's called) and then on Saturday morning managed my first gym visit which actually involved using the gym this year. From there I went shopping for new bed-clothes (did I mention that all my spare duvet covers and sheets seem to be moth-eaten?) and then blitzed my bedroom. I can now see some of the floor. All I need to do is find wardrobe space for the seven pairs of trousers I had left over when I ran out of room.

On Saturday night I went off to see a great production of MacBeth at the Tron. It was fairly shouty, and purposely masculine (down to the witches, although there was a female Mrs MacBeth) but I really enjoyed it. It whipped along at a terrific pace, but the delivery kept the text strong and clear.

Sunday was more tidying, a visit to the local dump (bottles, cardboard, more bottles) and coffee in the abandoned streets of Bearsden with my friend Kay. Seriously, the place had a serious 28 Days Later vibe going on. Perfectly normal, according to Kay. I cooked far too much for myself for Sunday dinner, watched Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist for the first time (I really enjoyed it) and then got a decent night's sleep.

I even made it to the gym yesterday, so I might be getting back to some sort of healthy life-style.

Having said which, I'm seriously over-caffeinated today. No more coffee for this boy, oh no.