Listening to Beethoven piano concerto #3 on CBC - what pleasure. Jonathan Biss, marvellous pianist. They're saying he suffers from extreme anxiety. If I had to perform something that difficult, I would too.
A tranquil day. My son and his pup may come to visit, the electrician Mr. Wu said he'd fix some wiring, I'll cook listening to Eleanor, do some work. Write to you.
The sad news is that the great French artist Sempé has died at nearly ninety. His work was unique, exquisite, with a joyful sweetness and innocence and yet a clear eye on human foibles and foolishness, but always with love. I have two framed prints and New Yorker covers and books. The only artist comparable is perhaps Steinberg, also marvellous, but who did not have Sempé's celebratory kindness. Thank you, Sempé, for all the pleasure you gave.
A time that does not exist any more. They'd all be facing a screen playing video games.
Two mornings ago, there was a mouse in my sink for the second time. The poor things must jump down to see what's there and can't get out. I trap them in a glass and release them at the end of the garden; undoubtedly they just come back, because there are droppings on my counters and stovetop. Yesterday, Thomas came to help with various things, and we pulled out the stove and blocked the hole where we thought they were accessing the kitchen — thick cardboard, steel wool, tons of duct tape.
This morning, there were droppings on my stovetop and, for good measure, a half-chewed cherry tomato. Back to the drawing board.
My brother sent two pics this week.
It breaks my heart this portrait of my dad is hanging on some stranger's wall. And, yes, that my brother and I sold it for so little. However. Mistakes are made. C'est la vie.
Last night I started to watch Belfast and just couldn't. Could not watch neighbours murdering each other for some arcane difference in religion. Changed channels and watched a new doc on Diana, which is footage and voices, no commentary, about her too-short life, an indictment of celebrity culture, the vicious aggressive British tabloids, the media in general. Cried at that, instead, at a shot of Harry's agonized face as he looked at the mountains of flowers, at again watching those boys walk behind their mother's coffin without an arm around them, a hand to hold. The rich are not like you and me.
Doesn't life feel like this sometimes?
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