No Real Excuse

It was an aridity of time for composition this weekend, ironic given the downpour. Friday was spent finding my feet philosophically and cooking a sardinian casserole. Saturday a.m. I chose to work, though I enjoyed the IMAX and the Rover, it was still a prime situation put to alternative tasks. I have documented the accolades of Saturday on samizdat and that evening was spent with the Playoffs.

My reading never suffered from this weekend of bypath, conversely, I found great pleasure in a few urgent side reads, notably Borges on the Arabian Nights (from his Seven Nights collection) and the long-neglected London by Dr. Johnson. I have made steady progress in the Gass, finding it Joycean in its ambition but ultimately abject in its moral constructs, the Shoah only crystallized the latent reptile. The Burton will be expounded upon in Samizdat as I am quite tardy in charting its progress.