The Mind's Mildew

Alas, I am home today. A slight fever and an opaque head left me struggling for sleep all night and i spent the morning in bed gleaning dreams in draughts. I was thinking about E.M. Ciroin, about how Joel once bought me a book of his. Was that 15 years ago? I think he also bought me the Collected Letters of Karl Marx. All of that poetic theory has been abandoned on the beach, the foamy rocks of my memory. I miss J Barry -- his asides to his own agendas: I wonder what he is writing now.

It was about two years ago (or was it three) when I read Tale of Two Cities in Chicago. I believe that Joel read it as well but Roger didn't. Despite all of its convenient coincidence, I really liked that book. It is too easy to lose oneself in the pondering of books read prior, I cannot decide as Melville's Bartleby that I prefer not to.

I started the Echo Maker and I like it but I am quite shaken with my ambitions presently. The floundering of Tree of Smoke left me bruised.

I believe that my wife is going to buy me Fiasco for our anniversary, an interesting twist, or so I believe. I should read more of the Broch but can't find energy. Its all misplaced. Perhaps like Waugh's unfortunate, I'll be forced to spend my days reading Dickens aloud.