At Home He's a Tourist

He fills his head with culture/ He gives himself an ulcer.

Sunday, February 13, 2005

Woke up at 4:00 a.m., per usual. Too tired to read, the only thing I could do was listen to dumb radio preachers (the only talk radio programs available around here) until I fell back asleep around 6:30. These preachers are of the witch-doctor Pentecostal variety, healing callers' ailments by fiat over the airwaves. I should probably check out some audio books from the public library, if they have any. (It's a tiny operation with lousy hours.)

With only five hours of sleep accumulated I seriously considered skipping church, but thought that some human contact would be a good thing. Talked about Monty Python with the attorney, who remembers seeing Holy Grail when it was released in theaters back in the seventies. I almost had a chance to see a revival showing of it in Dallas a couple of years back, but a certain someone couldn't stay up for the midnight screening. (I forgive him, though!)

I finished the Python book, and am about 2/3 of the way done with Mistress of Mistresses. The latter is quite good, even if Eddison is addicted to highly elaborate similes. I requested the sequel, Fish Dinner in Memison, through ILL. It's interesting to me that so many highly educated Brits (Tolkien, Peake, Eddison, Dunsany, Lewis, etc.) devoted their literary efforts to fantasy during a particular era, late 19th to middle 20th century. Perhaps a vestige of Romanticism.

Long guitar practice this afternoon. Started on Bach's Bourree, a nice change from Monk (although "Ruby My Dear" still needs a lot of polishing).

Ever noticed that music can be unusually affecting when you're half asleep? I woke up one night with a disc playing and the current track sounded poignantly beautiful. In the clear light of day, it was nothing special.


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