I mentioned this before. I’m a lucky person because I inherited my grandmother’s propensity to wake up in a good mood. Yesterday was horrible. I was terribly sad and then frustrated with everything categorically theatrical. But so far this morning, I haven’t even thought about the bad parts of work. I just made my to-do list (which includes enough writing to keep me from trying to write something substantial here) and set about preparing to work. I’ll probably do a little house cleaning as well. My apartment is filled with clutter - clothes and purses mostly. Where do people put their purses? Mine are all oversized so I can carry my life around in them as I trapse through the city. Do people have a closet devoted to them? I don’t know. I really ought to find a hiding place for them. I generally have about three going - black, brown, and some third more exciting color. Riveting, I know.
I promise I’ll get back to writing real fiction sometime very soon. “Blindness” is an increasingly weird book. I like it very much. I can’t imagine ever writing anything like it. It’s so laborious - not the writing itself which is pretty engaging but the actual narrative - the what’s what of it. There are so many problems and the details of those problems and the attempt to solve those problems is fascinating… but one of the characters suggested that it had to get better, which led me to believe that in Jose Saramago’s world nothing will be getting better for quite some time. In Saramago’s world, there’s no waking up on the bright side precisely because there’s no brightness left.
