It is the last quarter of the full moon, but the son-of-a-bitch is still banging the side of my head in the wee hours and only a good stiff shot of malt liquor that brings one to any semblance of ones own self--whatever that may be.
I had intended to do a blog comparing the Canadian woman to her American counterpart, but real writing is hard in coming, so I'll cheat a bit, imitate the great Borges a bit and pretend the blog has already been written and I'll just make reference to it.
A Canadian woman:
She is tall, poised, somehow Victorian at her full age of 29 and she can make labyrinthine objects out of wire, nails and string. Quetzalcoatl Mexican snakes, medieval knights, batiks. She would have liked to have struck out as a serious artist, yet she never did. Secretly, when in her cups and not in possession of her usual presence, her good humour, she had admitted to our friends that she hates her life and her plodding statistician husband and she is going to a psychiatrist. Like many a Toronto area woman, she is nervous, high strung, high on the Darwin scale, but temperamental as a thoroughbred. She is allergic to any number of things. She is sometimes given to fits of compulsive scratching when she's sure people aren't watching and her whole makeup, when her poise is down is that of a tall, lovely woman, the envy of anybody on the block, who is violently uncomfortable inside her own skin.
The young Canadian woman as neurotic?
God help us.
But it is more likely that the writer is turning into a stone whacko.
All the noises we make when we have not done our research, have not produced the actual work, and then try to make Borgesian noises to make up for our hurry to get something into print.
I think we shall now back up and do the actual work.