“Never trust quotes placed at the beginning of chapters as if they were diamonds of the brain. They were probably written by a halfling expressly for the purpose of deceiving you.” —GNOMER THE GNOMERIAN, in the Fourth Gnomeric Cycle,
Hearne, Kevin; Dawson, Delilah S.. No Country for Old Gnomes: The Tales of Pell (The Tales of Pell Series Book 2) (p. 9). Random House Worlds.
I started reading a new book. After a few pages, I began to sense that I had read the book before. What was worse, I had the vague impression that I had read it twice before. What was even worse than that, I was sure I did not like the book. What was worst of all, I could not remember the plot or how things worked out so I am compelled by my compulsive curiosity to reread the thing once more to find out.
Note: I did re-read it (see below). I had read it before. Now that I finished reading it, I have forgotten again what it was all about.
Earlier in the afternoon, I went to have my weekly lunch with Hayden in the Golden Hills. The restaurant he had been working at after school just has been closed and is being sold. He, however, has been hired to clean the place up before it is transferred to the new lessees or owners. He also got a job a a new restaurant that will be opening in the area in October. Yesterday he went to a training session for staff. He found no-one seemed to know their jobs well so he had to instruct them. In addition, the head chef as head chefs usually are was arrogant and imperious but more so. So he told them he did not want the job. They called him and begged him to reconsider. He refused. He said he had his own ambitions and did not need to spend time someplace where he would be unhappy.
That evening Naida, I, and the dog went to the pool. Naida and I swam. Boo-boo barked at a passing dog. The person attached to the dog told us her dog was frightened by Boo-boo and she (the attached woman) feared for her life. Later after we stopped swimming and were about to leave, we noticed two people from the Saturday Morning Coffee sitting at one of the tables by the pool. They were enjoying the evening which was a bit cooler than it had been the past week or so and there was a pleasant breeze blowing.
We joined them. Bill (who I had named “Big Bill”), I learned had been a San Jose police officer and then a member of the FBI and head off the office in Provo, Utah that had jurisdiction over much of Utah outside of Salt Lake City. Eventually he resigned because… well because he lived in Provo, headed the office that had jurisdiction over much or Utah outside of Salt Lake City; grew to hate Utah in general; the Mormon superstructure in particular; and longed to return to California. Back in California, he became a private detective. Cheryl his GF. who is also a member of the Board of the HOA, we learned is a dog aficionado and often dog sits for friends. We had a pleasant discussion about dog breeds and canine behavior.
The next day when I got up, I took a lot of stuff I had read about that promised to cure sleepiness, lethargy, and drowsiness. I thought I had a lot to do today and I did not want my usual battles with listlessness to interfere. Unfortunately, I became more drowsy and sleepy than usual. Even worse unfortunately, the house cleaner arrived today and therefor I could not go up to my bedroom and nap until she had cleaned and vacuumed it. So I spent a few hours with half closed eyes staring out of the window cursing my day. I then decided to read more of the book I had already read. The characters, an elf, a dwarf, a magical princess and the hero a fictional detective named Joe remained running about the endless library, jumping into random books and having adventures. We are now about 1/3 of the way through the books and still the chief protagonists, the fictional authors and this very real reader have no idea what it is all about and why?
The next day, Friday, Naida and I watched the Roman Spring of Mrs. Stone with Vivian Leigh and Warren Beatty. I pointed out to her some of the sights we will be seeing when we travel to Rome in October — if it happens. Ten years ago also in August, I had a planned trip to Italy that was postponed (See below).
At about six in the evening, my sister Maryann and her husband George arrived from Mendocino to spend the weekend. They were fleeing Mendocino’s summer weather. They brought with them Finn the Wonder Dog and a marvelous zucchini and basil soup that we had for dinner. After dinner Maryann turned to me with a very serious look on her face and said, “Now that we have enjoyed our meal, I have to tell you something unpleasant.” I looked at her expecting a joke of some sort. She then said, “I received a letter from Betsy Davids, our brother Jim has just died.”
I really did not know how to react to the news. My emotions shut down. My sister looked at me with concern. For the next hour or so we talked about him and shared our memories with Naida and George. Sometimes the conversation would drift off into other topics. All the while there was a great silence in my mind. The voices of the others muted and memories flitted quietly by as feelings of guilt, sadness, and confusion languidly warred with one another for my attention.
Jim was a warm. friendly and seemingly happy child four years younger than me and 14 years older than my sister. He was a middle child and and as such was treated both within and outside of the household with the ambiguity often experienced by them. My father clearly favored me and doted on my sister. My sister whose surprising birth so long after her older brothers received enhanced attention and I had left for college leaving him with whatever insecurities that experience brought. Add to that the fact that, at about this time, when he was 14 and riding his bicycle on a street near our house, he was struck by a car, lingered near death for a while with damage to his head, recovered and seemed to suffer a personality change. What was a happy go lucky kid, was replaced by a more serious, reflective, and a bit withdrawn teenager. One day many yeas later, he walked into my sisters house with gifts for her baby son Brenden and announce he was cutting off any further contact with any of the family.
A few days before his visit with my sister, at a party I had thrown for a bunch of San Francisco’s movers and shakers and a lot more who were happy and humored to stand by and watch, Jim told a story about something he did that he was proud of. It reminded me of something I had done. So, typically for me, I launched into a story of my own. Half-way through I could see his face drop. I had, as I often do with people, rained on his parade by my boorish compulsion to tell a story about me when reminded of it by someone else’s. I always felt that was what had driven him away.
Jim, I always loved you and missed you.
Later, at about 8 PM, my son Jason, his wife Hiromi and his daughter Amanda arrived to join all of us. After a lot of talking and joking around everyone went to bed. Maryann and George in one Guest room, Hiromi and Amanda in another while Jason stayed downstairs and watched television until he fell asleep on the sofa.
The next morning Amanda set off for her SATs at Sacramento State and Jason drove off to play golf somewhere. Hiromi, Maryann and George, and Naida and I walked to the Nepenthe Club House. We dropped Hiromi off to visit with her friend Setsuko while the rest of us attended the Saturday Morning Coffee. Following that, Maryann, George and I went swimming at the pool. Later in the afternoon, Jason and his crew stopped by to say goodby to us having completed whatever activities they had planned for their time in Sacramento. After that, they headed off back to SF.
That evening, we went to dinner at Mulvaney’s B&L in downtown Sacramento. The restaurant, the brainchild of Patrick and Bobbin Mulvaney. Patrick Mulvaney, who is also the Chef, is a leading public policy advocate on the national stage. He is one of the people working to make Sacramento the “Farm-to-Fork” capital of the country. We sat outside ate, talked and laughed for almost three hours. The food was great.
The next morning, we went for lunch at another of our favorite restaurants, La Trattoria Bohemia, a Czech/Italian restaurant on J St in Sacramento. Not only is the food good but they have a great selection Czech award winning beers.
After the lunch, we realized we may have consumed too much Czech beer. We went to the pool. I was too exhausted and tipsy so I took a nap at the side of the pool while Maryann and George swam. After we returned home, Jason called and we had one of those difficult father and son conversations that leaves one sick at heart.
On Monday, Mary and George left early in the morning to drive back to Mendocino. I was exhausted and felt ill. I slept for most of the day. In the evening, I received another call from Jason that went just about the way the previous call did. Later, Naida and I had a bit of a contretemps over her difficulty using the computer. It was perhaps worst we had ever had. I eventually dragged myself to bed fully intending tomorrow to be the last day of my life. By the following morning, I was too exhausted to arrange for it.
The next day, I was physically sick, so I slept for most of the day. The following day I was feeling much better and I drove into the Golden Hills to have lunch with Hayden.
Thursday, the temperature was expected to reach 106F. We stayed indoors doing what we usually do reading, wrestling with the computer, and talking. Naida read the obituary section of the Sacramento Bee, now and then telling me about those dead people who seemed to have lived interesting lives. That is one of life’s tragedies. Your really do not know how interesting your life has been until someone writes your obituary.
At about 3PM, we went off to Happy Hour at Bennett’s, a restaurant nearby where we joined with a group of oldies from the Saturday Morning Coffee and told each other stories. Most of the stories were about growing old and losing our memories. I had planned to go swimming after leaving the restaurant but felt very sleepy so I went home and took a nap. I do not remember much of Friday other than going for a swim later in the evening. The high temperature outdoors remained in the 100s and was expected to climb to 113F by Monday.
Saturday, of course brought the Saturday Morning Coffee around again. I sat closer than I usually do to Gerry with a G, our leader, so that I could hear the punchlines of the bad jokes. I did hear them but now two days later I no longer remember them. Sometimes in life, no matter what you do, you still miss the punchline.
Since I began this post, I have read several novels. One of which, Lost on a Page by David Sharp about which I began this post resembles Jasper Fforde’s great Thursday Next novels but not as interesting and inventive. It is about a Detective Joe Spade who discovers he is only a character in a series of detective novels, teamed up with refugees from a fantasy novel series along with the authors of the novels to prevent an all powerful wizard from coming alive and destroying the real universe. Another one entitled Apocalypse Generic Systems, by Macronicom I frankly have absolutely no recollection of what it was about. I wonder if this means I have to read it again. I have also read The Ink Black Heart by Robert Galbraith as pseudonym for J.K. Rowling of Harry Potter fame. It is the most recent book in the series and takes Strike and Robin deep into the world of social media and right wing madness. I love all the books in the series but am increasingly put off how two people who have spent 5 years clearly in love with each other, never even got it together to share a kiss.
The Rowling novel also had each chapter begin with a bit of poetry, not an unusual affectation of novelists. I noticed many of the poets quoted were 19th century writers some of which I recognized like the Rossettis and many I did not. Tracking down these latter poets led me to Matthew Arnold’s early 20th Century anthology The English Poets. This early classic poetry anthology in five volumes contains 1446 selections by over 200 authors and features lengthy critical introductions by fellow poets and literary critics. It contained many lesser known poets who in my opinion wrote some of the better poetry written in English up until that time,. especially woman poets who always seemed to end up with the short end of the stick.
As I write this, the temperature has reached 110 degrees outside. It is expected to continue to rise until it tickles the underside of 115 degrees. In all my travels I do not recall it ever being this hot. I intend to go to the pool at about 5PM. That is when it is expected to be the hottest. I am curious to feel the effect of the extreme heat on my body during the short walk from here to the pool.
Well, as I think about it, there was the time in the early seventies when I decided to explore Death Valley. Having arrived only recently from the East Coast and only having heard tales about the place, I was eager to visit it. At the time, I had no concept of deserts and extreme heat. I thought Fourth of July would be a good time to go and so we set off from San Francisco. We arrived at the entrance to Death Valley about sundown. It was hot, very hot. We did not know how hot it was so we drove to the center of the Valley at its lowest point where for some reason we thought it would be cooler. There was a large parking lot there. It was empty. In fact we really had seen only two automobiles during our drive in and both of them were going the other way. We planned to sleep in the car but it quickly go too hot so we climbed to the roof to sleep there under the stars.We thought it would be cooler there. It was not. As soon as it had gotten lighter, we decided to escape the heat as quickly as we could. And we did, only stopping for a few minutes at Zabriskie Point because in Antonioni’s movie of the same name he had hired a number of hippie and artist friends of mine to writhe naked in the sands in one of the movies classic scenes. We saw no cars on the way out. Latter I learned the temperature had hit 124 degrees.
So, at about 5PM when the temperature was 114F, I set off for the pool. It was not a long walk about 300 or so steps. The heat felt solid. I arrived at the pool. It was empty except for the same woman who was there sitting in the same chair. I sat and got ready for swimming. After swimming my laps, I sat by the pool but the heat began to get to me so I walked back home.
That evening while reading one of my books, I came across the term Myalgic Encephalomyelitis. It also is referred to as, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome my hypochondria genes woke up and convinced me that I was suffering from that and had been since I was in my cradle. It is always better to blame some medical condition than taking personal responsibility.
Tuesday is expected to be even warmer than yesterday. Perhaps getting up to 115 degrees or more. Looking out the window now at noon the temperature is 106F. It all looks benign, sun drenched. The air unnaturally still. Only the drooping leaves of the trees gave one any sense of the blazing heat outside.
I want to write down some thoughts on Christopher Moore’s novel Sacré Bleu that I recently read. I love Moore’s books. They are the type of literal goulash ( or ghoulash if you prefer) that I like, They are a mixture of detective stories, fantasies, comic novels, literary satire and just plain fun. Sacré Bleu is probably not his most famous work and perhaps not his best, but it is my favorite. Not because of any literary merits it may have but because of the sensitivity and humor with which he treats the artists of La Belle Époque and the way he integrates their paintings into his texts. Here is one by Toulouse Lautrec:
“Take her home, eat with her, and sip wine, laugh softly at sad things, make love to her and fall asleep in her arms; that’s what he wanted to do.” The Laundress—Henri Toulouse-Lautrec, 1884
Moore, Christopher. Sacre Bleu (pp. 45-46). HarperCollins.
Or this one by James McNeill Whistler:
“Her name is Jo Hiffernan,” said Whistler. “An Irish hellcat—skin like milk. Quick-witted for a woman, and a soul as deep as a well.” Symphony in White #1—James McNeill Whistler, 1863
Moore, Christopher. Sacre Bleu (pp. 69-70). HarperCollins. Kindle Edition.
I have no problem with integrating illustrations into fiction. Perhaps it is even more justified than ever given the competition modern literature is receiving from electronic media. It should, however, be more integral to and integrated in the story than was usual for illustrations in the past.
It had reached 115 degrees outside as I finally left the shelter of our house and set off for the pool. According to the weather predictions, we still had one two more degrees to go before it began to cool down for the evening. My shirt was open during the show walk to the pool and I felt a slight burning sensation whenever the sun struck my exposed skin. The same elderly women, I had seem for the past three evenings was the only person there when I arrived at the pool. She was swimming.
I swam my laps. I felt more fatigued that usual. I wondered if it was the heat or my tendency to romanticize my life. When I finished my laps, I sat by the pool in the shade and fiddled with my smartphone a while until I dried off and them walked home.
The following morning while Naida was walking the dog, she tripped and fell scraping her knee and twisting her ankle. Her leg is now propped on the desk and the ankle is wrapped with ice. Later, I drove into the Golden Hills for lunch with HRM. Although it was a pleasant lunch, we were both so enervated from the heat scintillating luncheon conversation was in short supply.
Shortly after I returned home, I went upstairs for a short nap before my evening swim. Suddenly I heard Naida calling me. She sounded in some distress. I ran downstairs and found her crawling on the floor. One of her ankles (not the one she had injured earlier) had given out and she could no longer stand or walk on it. Somehow we were able to get to the car. I drove her to the Kaiser emergency room. Visits to the emergency room seem to have become a monthly occurrence for us. She is still there awaiting a doctor’s evaluation and treatment. I returned home to wait for her to call me with the results of her examination and when I should pick her up to bring her back home.
She had a bad sprain, and was on crutches when I picked her up that night. Thursday, I spent mostly around the house applying cold compresses on Naida’s ankle and taking long naps. Watched the most recent House of the Dragon episode and three episodes of Bosch on Amazon Prime Video. Finished the latest Laundry Files novel by Stross and began the novel Slow Horses the second in the series by Mick Herron featuring a group of misfit British intelligence officers who solve intricate mysteries even though they mostly despise one another. Very British, lots of spite, little action.The temperature out doors reacher 115F.
The next day Naida and I set off to buy a new suitcase and some other things for the trip and some food for the dog to hold him over during the time we will be gone. While the temperature reached only about 107F today the smoke from the fires in the Golden Hills made it difficult to breathe. At about sundown as I walked the dog, I began to feel winded and dizzy and had to rest on a bench for a while. That evening, I watched another episode of Rings of Power and marveled once again at its production values. Unlike House of the Dragon which has basically a single plot focused upon the competition for power between the various contenders for the Throne, House of the Dragon has several story arcs that have to be developed so it appears a bit more confusing and less dramatic. I also watched two more episodes of Bosch that I enjoyed. Since it is a series few if any of the plot lines are resolved in any single episode while Harry Bosch continues to get more angry and more exhausted. I also read some more of Herron’s Book. While everyone in the Secret Service pisses on each other, a British Pakistani boy appears on TV tied to a seat with a hood on his head and a sign that he will be killed in two days.
On Saturday we got up late and missed the Coffee. In the afternoon, I set off for grocery shopping. The skies were grey —probably, an effect of the smoke from the nearby fires. The temperature had dropped below 100F. The first time it has done so in about 50 days.
On Sunday the Niners looked so bad I had to turn the TV off and pout. I was annoyed enough to send this post out.
Papa Joe's Tales, Fables and Parables 