The Farm

So last Monday I went to the weekly volunteer orientation at the farm. There were two of us, a student in her third year, switching to a major in earth sciences and me, and we ended up weeding a patch of onions, then cutting back some kale, a very satisfactory way to spend a couple of hours, what with the chickens clucking contentedly in the background and the free produce at the end (three leeks I made into soup that night and lots of strawberries, all organic). I'll go again tomorrow.

I've always enjoyed weeding. It's another of those mindless, domestic tasks, like ironing, that leave you feeling the world is a tidier place, that you haven't messed it up with any stray thoughts. But I'm going to need to be more diligent with the sunscreen if I keep up, which I plan to.

Tuesday and Thursday volunteers harvest--for the university dining halls and the odd "farm to table" local restaurant. But that's in the morning and I like to think I 'work' in the morning, meaning putter around on my computer, playing with Baudelaire or my own little eggs of poems.

Late Saturday afternoon

A peaceful afternoon, with sunshine and a breeze. We visited the community garden (lots of abandoned plots) and the "O'Donahue Family Farm"--wonder who the O'Don0hues, who preferred to have their name on a farm with chickens and leeks rather than a big fancy building housing gym equipment or computers, are.

I could move into the chicken coop--it would be a squeeze, but a bed of hay and a nice weedy field to peck in, and companions whose political opinions are limited to cut-cut-cut. We had a conversation leaning over the electric fence, which fortunately wasn't plugged in. Anyway, half the chickens had escaped to the surrounding field, and after we wondered if we should get them back, we saw a sign: "Don't worry about us, we can get ourselves back in. We are at Stanford after all."

This is my sort of place, with a bench in the shade of an old, spreading live oak tree, and stink of manure, and the little sounds hens make when they are foraging.  A few bikes off in the corner of the field, a shed covered in a sheet of  plastic with tools and seedlings, some wheelbarrows (none of them red) and a densely-planted band of orange and yellow marigolds. I could have settled down with a book.

Coetzee, "Diary of a Bad Year"

I've been rereading "Diary" this past week, for a Spring Term seminar on "The Contemporary" that I've been given permission to audit--perhaps the principle joy of living next door to a university is the chance to audit an endless variety of classes and fill in some of the gaps in my education.

I read the Coetzee soon after it was published back in 2007. My copy then came from the library of the British school I was working in, in Chatou, along the Seine in the Paris suburbs. It is a provoking book: the top part of each page is the diary: short polemical, essayistic entries on a variety of topics, such as the state, democracy, Machiavelli and the bottom of the page contains the story of a man who sounds a lot like Coetzee (lives in Australia, writing a book, maybe this book, aging, horny) who meet a sexy young woman in his high rise laundry room (lots laundry room details), ruminates about the stereotype of horny aging men, endeavours to strike up a relationship, etc. There are two or three problems that interest me: 1) what is the point of this structure? 2) how to bloody read the book: a) a bit of the top of the page and a bit of the bottom, page after page; b) read the top or the bottom (a narrative, makes more sense) straight through, then come back and read the other part straight through? (Kundera, in his mingling of essay and narrative makes this easier; Coetzee doesn't provide any transitions; c) would either part of the book on its own be sufficiently interesting? It's getting under my skin. I suspect that's what Coetzee intends.

It's very well written, somewhat abrasive, like someone you meet at a party who makes no attempt whatsoever to charm you and seems to be smirking at your discomfort.

Elena Ferrante, "La Figlia Oscura"

from the beginning of Chapter 2, quickly translated:

'When my daughters moved to Toronto, where their father had been living and working for years, I discovered with embarrassment and delight that I didn't feel sad at all, in fact I felt as light as if I had finally brought them into the world. For the first time in about twenty-five years I no longer felt the anxiety of having to look after them. The house stayed as clean as if no one lived in it, I was no longer plagued by expenses or laundry, the woman who helped me with the cleaning found better paid work and I felt no need to replace her."

[Translation problems:

"messe al mondo" = "mettre au monde" in French = put [brought] them in the world, deliver.

imbarazzo = embarras = not really embarrassment, but a mixture of shame, botheration and embarrrassment.]

I've run out of Italian novels for the moment, so I'm rereading this one, which I have on the shelf.

I'm finding I can't quite face up to the next installment of Knausgaard. I brought it home from the library, I read a little, it sat around for a while, I took it back. 

Rainy Day

I'm sitting here looking out at sheets of rain, falling into the creek that separates our town from the next town, and wondering what the creek, which is usually dry, looks like. Not going out to see, though. The trees along the creek are all waving and drowning. Guess I'll go do a little cooking for dinner and hope it stops before too long because I have stuff to do and I'd rather do it on bike than in a car.

Just finished the first final draft of a review which I must now stop tinkering with and leave on the back burner for a few weeks till I can see it again and decide if it's ready for the publisher. Which also means it's time to think about finding something else to review or translate, or maybe I'll just watch reruns of House of Cards. 

I like the sound of rain on the roof.

Partisan Poem

The super new cultural/political magazine out of Canada--international in scope--Partisan has posted a poem from my new book, Hunting the Boar, coming soon from CB editions.

Saskatchewan

I am startled by how the name of "Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan" keeps popping up, most recently on the jacket bio of Karen Solie's terrific new book from Farrar Strauss and Giroux: "Karen Solie was born in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan." I suspect people just find it so incredible that a place named Moose Jaw could exist that they can't resist repeating it.

Well, just for the record my dad was born in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, and in our summer trips north and east from Vancouver to Waskesiu Lake in Prince Albert, Saskatchewan, we'd drive through a town called Medicine Hat, Alberta. I myself was born in the exotically named Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, on the banks of the Saskatchewan River (home to Saskatchewan's famous ski jump)  and I know a funny story about that:

A man and a woman from south of the American border were on a road trip in Canada and they were a little lost (sparsely settled up there). They spot a farmer ploughing. "Ask him where we are," the husband, who was driving, says to his wife. She jumps out, asks, returns to the car. "He says we're in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan," she says. "I guess they don't speak English up here." 

Happily ever after

I'm suffering withdrawal from Downtown Abbey, having tapered my doses of Season 6 by watching every episode twice before proceeding to the next, but all good things etc. Having read a recommendation for the British novelist Henry Green's autobiographical book Pack My Bag (by Helen Macdonald, the author of the wonderful book Hawk) and having ventured into the deepest reaches of the library stacks to find it (Green), smelling of old book, I began to read it a few days ago, just as I was watching DA Episode 9 (and final) for the last time, and lo! it is the Abbey in print form. Surely Julian Fellowes was inspired by it. I shall read Green's novels to explore this hypothesis. I see online that others have made this discovery before me, particularly with regard to a novel of Green's called Loving.

Really Fellowes must be commended for pairing off so many happy folk with more-than-Shakespearean gusto at the end of the series. You could see them all exchanging complicit winks at the marriage of Edith and Bertie, with a few more weddings clearly upcoming in epilogue. Perhaps there's even a match somewhere for poor Mr Barrow... . Seems a little unfair he should be the odd man out in the orgy of nuptials.