Spring Mill

My wife and I wnet to the State Park in Mitchell this morning and my thoughts curled back to the early fall of 1992 when I took my grandmother there for a picnic lunch of KFC and then we enjoyed the afternoon as I sat reading The Brothers Karamazov while she chainsmoked and browsed the paper. It was strange today to enjoy the sun and a lengthy hike only to retire to our books in the shade. This glyph of life is bent with penchant, so mercurial. I possessed a certain innocence that autumn, a time when the UN Embargo was making its presence felt in Belgrade,a time when Sarajevo was preparing for its second winter of siege. How naive I have been, how molified by opportunity! I recall the almost sacred splendor of Dostoevsky that season. I was so quick to absorb, to partake and I shudder to fear whatever posturing accompanied such.

I continue to read Seven Types of Ambiguity by Eliot Perlman. I originally associated with Danielewski's House of Leaves or A.L. Kennedy's Everything You Need, both are expositions of style, of exercise. This is astrange bed for me. I have since begun to recognize its similitude with The Corrections by Franzen.