Clara, in Allende’s The House of Spirits
%375 %UTC, %2020, %0:%Jun %ZJune 14, 2020
Clara, in Allende’s
The House of Spirits is, I think, my favourite character in all of literature. Psychic, clairvoyant, telekinetic, someone who could draw many people to her, helper of the poor, I’ve only just read her and am integrating her still. I suspect she is the real writer of the novel and the narrator draws his story from her copious notebooks. Others… Fevvers in Angela Carter’s
Nights in the Circus, but not as much as Allende’s Clara. Two books I’m currently reading! This isn’t much of a piece but it does come from the potpourri of a writing life.
But the grass didn’t get cut. The dog wasn’t bathed. There is no coffee cream for the morning. Laundry is still waiting. The floor didn’t get washed. The dishes not done, though that’s an easy task while the kettle boils for coffee. There was no writing. I started and finished a whole section of what is likely a new project and since then, nothing—waiting in writing purgatory. Tapping the keyboard distractedly, waiting for inspiration, for the muse, for a new place to begin again.
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Brenda ClewsIsabel Allende’s, The House of Spirits
%270 %UTC, %2020, %0:%Jun %ZAnother day of nothing. Up till 2am reading Isabel Allende’s,
The House of Spirits. Such lives - an incredible book, its social commentary, magic realism. Tired, though. Hammered shelves into the cat closet to put everything stored there so I can remove the kitty litter lid easily for daily cleaning. Felt slightly frazzled all day, with loose electrical wires hanging off my body that should be hooked into substantial activities. Cooked salmon pinwheels for mid-day dinner, followed by Portuguese custard tarts. A cool, sunny day. Waiting for a Laura Ashley cotton quilt that I can ask for a refund on tomorrow if it doesn’t arrive today. Waiting for a Zoom meeting with fellow poets. Waiting for focus to return. Waiting to come back since I seem to be wandering among uncertain particles in the dark matter of the universe. Waiting for nightfall.
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Brenda ClewsDjuna Barnes’ Nightwood
%743 %UTC, %2020, %0:%Jun %ZA lost day. Where tasks overtake, and not even. Djuna Barnes’
Nightwood on earbuds—the scene where the doctor is dressed in women’s clothes, a wig, lipstick and false eyelashes and is disappointed when Nora enters his chaotic room with the full chamber pot. His soliloquy on the meaning of life. Tying parcels to a dolly and returning them at the post office in the drug store & the guy refusing to scan them because it was too busy - one other person waiting in an empty line. After a dog walk, a slew of National Geographic videos on lions, all too short. And one on Majete Wildlife Reserve in Malawi. Sergei Polunin on YouTube, a favourite dancer. No writing.
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Brenda Clews