I only have a few pages of Both Flesh and Not by David Foster Wallace left to go. I don’t think I want to write about it today except to say that Wallace is funny. I forgot about his wit which is considerable.
I am figuring out what it’s like to live with so many ghosts. Friends and family members pepper my daily life. Eileen is the only living, breathing person I spend any amount of time with. Fortunately I enjoy her company. The ghosts, meh. Spending so much time with the written page keeps my juices flowing nicely thank you.
I haven’t been playing much keyboard lately. I just laid out some Mendelssohn in hopes that I’ll at least play some of him today.
Getting through Holy Week seems to be more significant than I thought it would. It may be some sort of milestone in my retirement life. I don’t feel any differently towards the whole Christianity thing. It looms in my personality but mostly as a tool to understand my fucked up self or informs my thinking about stuff.
I noticed that my reading is largely poetry and depressing topics like the genocide of the indigenous and the greed that drove the belief that one human could own another. I have several novels going but don’t seem to be picking them up and reading them recently.
Today is Jefferson’s birthday. On the Writer’s Almanac, Keillor went on and on about all the cool stuff Jefferson was into. It was only as an aside that he mentioned he was a slave owner.