A clone would have come in handy last night. I could have gone to the Hartman Piano meeting at City Hall, and the clone could have gone to my creative writing class, both of which started at 7:00. But there was no clone and I had to choose. I went to the class, since there are only five classes in the course and I didn’t feel I could miss one.
I was happy to hear about all the people who went to the meeting to show their support for the piano. I heard the turnout was great. The Centretown Citizens Community Association passed a motion in support of the piano. The Citizen today is reporting that Hartman’s has agreed to meet with representatives of the piano group, which is excellent news. I’m feeling optimistic that some kind of mutually agreeable solution is just around the corner.
I read an excerpt from a book last night, in writing class, which was so quirky and charming I wanted to go buy the book immediately. It’s called The History of Love, by Nicole Krauss. But I’m already reading too many books at once, and making very little headway on any of them as a result. I’m currently reading The Lovely Bones (meh), The Globalisation of Addiction (so far so good), Galore (not sure), and the Book Thief (two thumbs up). I’m having the same problem with my knitting – I’m knitting two different socks and a lace shawl, and not making any noticeable progress on any of them.
I’m working this week on a contract. But even when I’m not working, it’s abundantly clear to me that there simply aren’t enough hours in the day. I used to blame it on the job, but I realize now it wasn’t the job’s fault. It’s a design flaw. Whoever designed the 24-hour day made a serious miscalculation. Each day should be at least 32 hours long.
At any rate. Back to The History of Love. This old man – Leo Gursky – lives in fear of dying alone and invisible. He spends his days making scenes in public, so that he’ll be noticed. Upon his death, he’d rather be remembered as peculiar, or repugnant even, than not be remembered at all. Here’s an excerpt:
“I’ll go into the Athlete’s Fooot and say What do you have in sneakers? The clerk will look me over like the poor schmuck that I am and direct me over to the one pair of Rockports they carry, something in spanking white. Nah, I’ll say, I have those already, and then I’ll make my way over to the Reeboks, and pick out something that doesn’t even resemble a shoe, a waterproof bootie, maybe, and ask for it in size 9. The kid will look again, more carefully. He’ll look at me long and hard. Size 9, I’ll repeat while I clutch the webbed shoe. He’ll shake his head and go to the back for them, and by the time he returns I’m peeling off my socks. I’ll roll my pant legs up and look down at those decrepit things, my feet, and an awkward minute will pass until it becomes clear that I’m waiting for him to slip the booties onto them. I never actually buy. All I want is not to die on a day when I went unseen.”
He would have been such a good blogger.