Drochaoibh

Tá drochaoibh orm ar maidin inniu is ní fheadar cad is cóir dom a dhéanamh chun í a scaipeadh. Is í an chéad líne cosanta de ghnáth agam ná rud éigin d'ithe, ach tá cupa mór is toirtín slogtha siar agam agus níl aon bhiseach orm fós. Go minic, táim ábalta dul ar iontaoibh Mhairc chun beagán misnigh a chur orm, ach is dóigh liom go bhfuil sé incommunicado anois féin.

Entracte lyrique

Au dessus des vieux volcans,
Glisse des ailes sous les tapis du vent,
Voyage, voyage,
Eternellement.
De nuages en marécages,
De vent d'Espagne en pluie d'Équateur,
Voyage, voyage,
Vole dans les hauteurs
Au dessus des capitales,
Des idées fatales,
Regarde l'océan...

Voyage, voyage
Plus loin que la nuit et le jour, (voyage voyage)
Voyage (voyage)
Dans l'espace inouï de l'amour.
Voyage, voyage
Sur l'eau sacrée d'un fleuve indien, (voyage voyage)
Voyage (voyage)
Et jamais ne revient.

Sur le Gange ou l'Amazone,
Chez les blacks, chez les sikhs, chez les jaunes,
Voyage, voyage
Dans tout le royaume.
Sur les dunes du Sahara,
Des îles Fidji au Fujiyama,
Voyage, voyage,
Ne t'arrètes pas.
Au dessus des barbelés,
Des coeurs bombardés,
Regarde l'océan.

Voyage, voyage
Plus loin que la nuit et le jour, (voyage voyage)
Voyage (voyage)
Dans l'espace inouï de l'amour.
Voyage, voyage
Sur l'eau sacrée d'un fleuve indien, (voyage voyage)
Voyage (voyage)
Et jamais ne revient.

Au dessus des capitales,
Des idées fatales,
Regarde l'océan.

Voyage, voyage
Plus loin que la nuit et le jour, (voyage voyage)
Voyage (voyage)
Dans l'espace inouï de l'amour.
Voyage, voyage
Sur l'eau sacrée d'un fleuve indien, (voyage voyage)
Voyage (voyage)
Et jamais ne revient

Sometimes the author of the story of my life just gets sloppy

You know it's a screwed up kind of day when the turning point, the event that puts and end to your funk and renews your sense of purpose, is an afternoon work meeting. And this where nothing else succeeded--not an indulgent junk food lunch nor a stroll through the bluebells, not a call to a friend or--ar ghrá Dé!--a tall cup of tea with cream and sugar.

Sometime in the wee hours, I must've rubbed the cat the wrong way because he leapt up and raked by left arm. After that, I just couldn't get the hang of things. I woke up on time, but dragged my feet so much I made it to work late anyway. Then I logged in to find my computer disconnected from the Internet. (Our best guess is that the cleaning crew knocked the jack just a bit loose because unhooking it and plugging it in again finally fixed things.)

My reading is screwed up, too. Since finishing Last crossing in a little over a weekend, I've been casting about for my next novel. In the meantime, it's been Edna O'Brien at bedtime (new list of puzzling words coming soon!) and Bruno Schultz on the shuttle. At least for a while. But e. is right, his style is exhausting; two of his stories and I'm ready for something else.

So for the time being it's Felipe Alfau's Locos. (Despite the name and the title, originally written in English.) It was no surprise to find that the Dalkey Archive Press was responsible for getting this book back in print since Alfau is taking a page from At Swim-Two-Birds--a feat all the more remarkable for that Locos appeared a full three years before O'Brien's masterpiece.