a morning divination

One photograph, chosen at random, the fireplace of the store in Pavilion, burned to the ground in 2000, but a place where we once stopped for ice-cream as we drove down off Pavilion Mountain. One photograph, taken on a fall day, in crisp air, before the atmospheric rivers, before the wildfires, before the war in Ukraine, before, before. To remember what remains, after fire, after everything disappears into ash. On the morning we passed, there were horses nudging the grasses around the foundations.

One passage, chosen when the book fell open on my desk:

Monday, November 18th [1935]
     It struck me tho’ that I have now reached a further stage in my writer’s advance. I see there are four? dimensions: all to be produced, in human life: and that leads to a far richer grouping and proportion. I mean: I; and the not I;and the outer and the inner–no I’m too tired to say: but I see it: and this will affect my book on Roger. Very exciting, to grope on like this. New combination in psychology and body–rather like painting. This will be the next novel after The Years.

It feels like timely advice, or thoughtfulness to absorb, as I work on my novel-in-progress: the inner and the outer, the analogy of painting. As the season progresses and the temperatures drop, a little winter in the air this morning, even though it’s barely fall.