An ordinary day

The painters have been here for four days, and there's more to come. They're in the lounge, in the hall, on the stairs, removing the old paper and plastering. Yesterday, a miracle happened: Peter and I agreed on new wallpaper, easily. It was not our first attempt. The paper may take a month or so to arrive, a breather from the tradies.

Since returning to my study, I have yet to clear my desk. Piles of papers. I don't know what they are. Somewhere among them is a request from the pension fund to attend to some admin. I am several months behind with this. I need to throw at least 50% away, clear space so that the children will not have to do it. I have a box of books for a 2nd hand bookshop. It is too heavy for me to carry.

Two days ago I attended Renee's memorial. After mentioning Nicola Easthope because she couldn't make it, I read out the text Renee sent me when I was struggling with the book, telling me off for not working hard enough. It went down a treat, gales of laughter. Adrienne Jensen told me about the Landfall Press she and others have started. They are doing very well!

I have booked myself in to have my eyebrows and eyelashes dyed ('tinted')  - no makeup at sesshin. Left to their own devices, they are invisible and I look washed out, androgynous. Sessin starts on Monday, at Lake Rotoiti, by St. Arnaud.

I decided to keep a diary, to write like this every day as often as possible. I have now read two of Ian McEwan's books. He introduces evil into his stories, realistic and creepy. Not what I want, though I believe people tend to underestimate both its presence in our lives and its power. Then read Maggie O'Farrell's book I am, I am, I am. Seventeen brushes with death (Tinder press, 2017). Well written, but doesn't contribute anything, doesn't enlighten or surprise me: I'd been writing up my own. Only five that I can remember. A little miffed she got there first - and much better! Her early years, before she became ill, resemble mine, desiring to be free, to follow whatever impulse arises, a need for stimulation, for excitement. 

Many criminals have the same urge; one theory claims it lies behind the impetus to offend. In one of McEwan's books, the criminal character displays it, in his case due to Huntington's.

Harold Pinter's poems on death (p. 263 and 221)

Meeting

It is the dead of night,

The long dead look out towards

The new dead

Walking towards them

There is a soft heartbeat 

As the dead embrace 

Those who are long dead

And those of the new dead 

Walking towards them

They cry and they kiss

As they meet again

For the first and last time

(No full stop at the end...)

  

Death

(Births and Deaths Registration Act 1953)

Where was the dead body found?

Who found the dead body?

Was the dead body dead when found?

How was the dead body found?

Who was the dead body?

Who was the father or daughter or brother

Or uncle or sister or mother or son

Of the dead and abandoned body?

 

Was the body dead when abandoned?

Was the body abandoned?

By whom had it been abandoned?

 

Was the dead body naked or dressed for a journey?

What made you declare the dead body dead?

How well did you know the dead body?

How did you know the dead body was dead?

Did you wash the dead body

Did you close both its eyes

Did you bury the body

 Did you leave it abandoned

 Did you kiss the dead body

I was careful about the punctuation. Neither poem ends with a full stop.