Ghastly

The day has been exacting, a grave strain has perched upon me like a vulture of convenience. Efforts to shrug it away were but smoke. I had a beer. This appeared to help. I likely won't have another until tonight, but I found the capacity for a lengthy walk. While walking I thought of boxing, not as a sport but as the subject of some dazzling writing. I don't really prefer to watch pugilism but rather read about it. It commands a grit. I enjoy Papa or Tosches on the sport. Apparently Liebling's Sweet Science is still revered in the genre, nearly 50 years after its publication. My grandfather liked boxing. My earliest memory of the sport is an Ali fight from the mid-70s. I think it may have been against Spinks or Holmes, I don't command the sequentiality of succession. My grandfather was not a literary man. He worked on cars and was henpecked by his wife for most of his life. She was a good woman, only an insecure one.

 

His daughter was a bitch.

 

My grandmother and I used to read for hours together in total silence. I have seen my adoptive mother once in the last 15 years: we didn't discuss any theories of the novel. My grandfather was one-quarter Native American. he was interested in the encounters between the Europeans and the indigenous. I am not sure whether he would have liked the Vollmann. He was also interested in both Civil War and WWII. He spent the latter working at the ammunition plant in Charlestown. His best friend was black. Otherwise, he claimed to be a racist. I don't really know. I know he hated politicians, particularly Republicans.

 

I am not sure whether this remembrance is cathartic. It feels trite. It was good to think while walking. I have so many doubts. The utility of this composition is one of them. I still don�t feel like reading nor watching Kurosawa. It will soon be time to go out to dinner. Maybe I'll have a beer.

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