Tuesday, Jul. 31, 2007 9:05 pm

Swimming Again

Very little actually happens to write about. This evening, the sky was four shades of purple, beautiful it was, and it did not matter that distant cranes made black spikes against it.

I'm going to be moving again soon, on another journey to "distant lands", "over hill and down dale", or something like that. Just without the whistling.

I should really be writing about it.

Perhaps I am being struck down by Oblomovitis.

I have too few responsibilities. A fellow cannot get by without responsibilities. It is so easy to be careless about oneself; harder to forget about other people. It is good to have people to care for, folk who need you to do things, for example, be ferocious. I have nobody to care for, and consequently I do little.

I discovered an excellent swimming pool recently. The water is cool and not overly chlorinated. The tiles at the bottom are fuggy and green. Large clumps of hair sidle about in the corners and near the ladders. Sometimes I am the first person to disturb the water, or at least it has been some time since the last, and the surface has flattened itself out, and is undetectable by anything except a toe or the fingertips of a dive. It is possible to swim forever in such a pool of water.

I finished reading Tolstoy's Confession recently. I agreed with everything he said. People find it disappointing, perhaps because they can't see past War and Peace and Anna Karenina to the person, the suffering human, who Tolstoy became.

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