Queer Luck

My friend Ed wrote to me Saturday morning and asked the opaque melody of dreams. I pondered that later as I drove to a book sale at Locist Grove, enjoying the frenetic activity on River Road, dozens of triathelets training on the penultimate day ahead of the Iron Man, a high school cross country tournament at the river's edge and a group of South Asians playing cricket. Hindsight informs me that I shouldn't have been watching the cricketeers and , instead, the cyclists running that fool's gauntlet of the wealthy from the East End. I made it to the sale and began my haul. I noticed that my memory now contains certain shoals which are rather alien. I can still recall most of the books I bought before, but often, as of late, I don't necessarily compute our additions. It is fair to mention as well, that I can't really recall the location and circumstances of many of the books acquired over the years. The sale had a surfeit of Iris Murdoch Penguins and I scooped up a stack. Related as such was the biography of Iris by Peter J. Conradi which I bought as well.

the rest of the weekend saw me complete The Life of Thomas More which I fear was undermined by the brilliance of Wolf Hall. Ackroyd was left in a vacuum by comparison, a dispassionate, nearly autistic, listing of More's deeds, crimes and writings. I did say crimes though discussions and ambiguity abound.