Robert (gurdonark) wrote,

absorbed by pebbles

On the interminable plane ride tonight, the woman in the row behind me loudly disparaged the kind of folks who ate a salad amid a normal diet of quarter pounders. It's "like throwing a rock in the Grand Canyon", she exclaimed. I liked her turn of phrase, but I thought to myself that so many times all the people and things I admire and respect the most are like throwing a rock in the Grand Canyon.
But rather than share this not particularly epiphanic bit of pith with her, I continued reading my "3 in one volume" Muriel Spark novels. I finished "The Girls of Slender Means" and "A Far Cry from Kensington", the latter of which had me giggling, to the wonderment of the youngish lawyer who sat beside me on the plane and perhaps had a preconceived notion that middle-aged men ought not sit in planes silently chortling, jello-like. I originally skipped "Momento Mori", because I thought I'd read it, but when I ran out of everything else, I plunged in again. I have read it before, but it seems more amusing this time.

I noted the mild asychrony when my preparation for my hearing tomorrow shifted me from the ambience of post-war London to the ambience of applying insurance policies to environmental losses. The secret to having fun in life? Make sure you're in charge of defining what is fun. I have a blast lately, on issues others might find, well, less than fun. But I live in a funhouse where others find only drab canvas.
I am not easily bored, I suppose. I love to wrap my mind around complexities that require me to juxtapose counterpointed analyses, hunting a pleasing gestalt in disparate threads.

I want to do mail art again. I must start scanning the web for calls. I also need to get the documentation done on the poetry call I did. I feel as though I'm waking up, somehow.

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