Just finished eating a sandwich in the kitchen with mum. She talked about this restaurant show she had been watching and described the various restaurants and chefs and incidents she had seen. I mostly sat and ate and listened. I’m worn out from my bath, from the long soak as I finished Cormac McCarthy’s All The Pretty Horses. What it lacked in the biblical power of Blood Meridian it compensated for with the character of John Grady Cole. McCarthy’s abilities to endlessly describe the wild wastes of the South West and Mexico is riveting, and his language is faultless and brilliant. You read his work waiting for truths to be revealed, for him to explain how the world works and why, and though his characters occasionally offer opinions, none of them are definitive and we are left to wonder, his book and its tale haunting our thoughts for days after we have set them down.
My time here at home is drawing to a close. It has been an idyll, a reverie in comfort and nonchalance. Endless amounts of good food and sweets, drinks and rest, companionship and family. It almost seems unreal, how good it is, how right it feels, how at ease I am.
Last night I went out with Mark, Annette, Randy, and Lauren to the Hard Rock cafe. We drank and danced and rode an electronic bull and today my inner thighs are rubbed raw and my forearm is sore and my shoulder feels mildly wrenched. I rode well, though. Two girls complimented me after, and I have a photograph to prove it, the mechanical bull pitching down and me riding high on the saddle, arm raised, gripping on for my life.
I’ve read some good books of late and have more lined up. Charlie Stross’ Glasshouse. Michael Chabon’s Wonder Boys. Cormac McCarthy’s All The Pretty Horses. I’ve got more McCarthy lined up, and plan to also work in Junot Diaz’s Drown and The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. This is a good time to be reading, and I hope some of the quality will rub off on me and in so doing make of my written works a thing to be considered with greater gravity and appreciation.