I'm having a very fiddley day, getting lots of little things done but not feeling that I'm accomplishing anything. Uppermost on my list of priorities is my generic letter, long over due. I began writing a letter summarizing the past year as most people do at Christmas time. They got tired of writing the same news over and over again to former neighbours, old and distant friends, new and possibly lasting acquaintances, teachers, aging aunts and uncles, perhaps an estranged sibling, and so on. Modern technology made it possible to write the letter once and then send copies to the list of people with whom one had to be jolly and informative. once a year. Some of the letters turned out to be bragging accounts of brilliant children, others contained more information about Venezuela than one cared to know; still others read like medical prognoses. Whatever the content, the letters took care of the List for another year. Add a scribbled note, pop it in an envelope and be done with it. I did it, too, and called the letter generic: one size fits all, covers most situations, condenses one's year to a page or two. But when I realized how useful it was, I began to write a generic every two months or so, to cover my activities and to inform friends about what I was doing and thinking. Some times. Anyway, i write five or six generic letters each year now, and the one I must do today, if possible, is my Christmas generic. I owe it a few months and it's your fault because I'm blogging now. Blogs, however, do not have the same content as generics. But generics can surprise one. I'll let you know if something good comes up. (I have so few blog-readers,they're probably on my Christmas List. I'll try not to repeat myself.)
the time is out of joint
I guess it always is, but sometimes the joints show. The calendar is running ahead of me, or behind, I'm not sure which. Yesterday I went to THE NORMAN CONQUESTS, the trilogy of plays by Alan Ayckbourn, all related, each complete, a marathon of viewing and thinking. I threw myself under the wheels of pleasure (to paraphrase Christopher Fry), and so I missed yesterday's blog - but I wrote the end of the day before's blog just before midnight, so now it's early morning the next day and I'm still on yesterday. So, as I say, the time is out of joint. I've said it before: we take in more knowledge, entertainment, distraction, information and yes, emotional content in a week than people in other centuries, even other decades were exposed to in six months or a year. It's not the taking in, it's the absorption. We need time to assimilate. So today - do I have time to assimilate? No. I'm facing another glorious assault on the senses. Does anyone remember or know about THE YOUNG VISITERS (sic)? Around the turn of the 20th century a nine-year-old girl wrote a novel, a romance, from the pov of a child, sophisticated but unworldly. Mr Salteena, I remember, was the name of the hero. Anyway, the story was a record of parties and dances and lovely events, with lots of ice cream. In fact, "life was a round of gaierty (sic)." [I'm having trouble getting Spelchek (sic) to accept my spelling deviations. Do I complain when it puts words in my copy?] The book was published, and re-published; I saw it a few years ago. The little girl's name was Daisy Ashford - I'm sure of Daisy, not quite so sure of Ashford. Anyway, the phrase , "a round of gaierty" became a line we cherished and used, and I still use it. My life lately has been a round of gaierty and it's difficult to absorb. Anon, anon. MY power is running low.