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| Writing |
Today is a day for writing. The rain continues without pause or consideration for clothes lines and flooded lawns that will not survive the spring at this rate. And as I write I will listen to Toumani Diabate's Mande Variations as I wrestle with abstruser musings (to paraphrase Sam Coleridge from Frost at Midnight). How I wish the writing was for pleasure, but alas I have a Journal paper to edit (big time - sigh). But what I won't be doing is sitting like this (right) on this Mallorcan patio, drinking coffee and typing while the world still sleeps. This is not the weather nor the time of year. Instead I will be here, at this desk writing by low lighting, in the spring darkness, on a damp English morning. But fear not, I will inject spice into my day by drinking sparkling water laced with ginger and lemon grass to inject some zest and enthusiasm where hitherto it had lain in slumber, in a long forgotten bed, a couple of hours ago. Italo Calvino said, 'Leopardi maintained that the more vague and imprecise language is, the more poetic it becomes. I might mention in passing that as far as I know Italian is the only language in which the word vago (vague) also means "lovely, attractive." Starting out from the original meaning of "wandering," the word vago still carries an idea of movement and mutability which in Italian is associated both with uncertainty and indefiniteness and with gracefulness and pleasure.' And this idea of uncertain, indefinite, graceful pleasure reminds me once again of that vague, lovely, attractive flying boy, wandering - abstruser musings, perhaps.
