Cat tale.

It is the butt end of a grey, cold, damp November day. The kind of day that really calls for you to have a book that you have read before, a soft reclining chair and no demanding tasks on hand. The undemanding tasks, the ones that are always hanging about, can be ignored, the book is amusing but you know the denouement, and the qualities of the chair are self-evident. 

 I have had a lovely nap, yes, thank you and I am now giving some thought to clearing the mess off my desk. I was aiming to find the bills that needed paying (see under ‘demanding’) but goodness knows what else is hiding under the sheaves and piles and notebooks. 

 I wrote that piece some days ago. Now it is the butt end of another November day, a very white one.

While I had my mind on money, I ordered three books from Amazon.. And I may donate the books to our local library once they have been to book club. You see, our book club has come up with what I consider to be a really good idea. We are working our way through John Ralston Saul’s Extraordinary Canadian series, choosing an eminent Canadian’s book from the list and reporting on it to the club. We figure we will use most of this year’s meetings on this as there are quite a few in the series and the library has a lot of them. 

 I chose to do Emily Carr next month and decided to buy the book as it is one of the few the library does not have. I also bought a book that is an overview of her painting, from adolescence on. Both books came today. The delivery was supposed to be yesterday, but we had a dump of snow, about 8 inches (and no, I am not going to do that in centimetres}, and the road was impassable. At noon today, which is the second day of the snowfall, the Township plow came growling along about noon and we were connected to the world once more. Well, by road. Both the internet and the phone were dead this morning and did not come to life until almost supper time. 

 I scanned through the book of paintings and quickly remembered why I do not enjoy Carr’s work. Although it is evocative and a wonderful record and commentary on West Coast tribal totems, her palette and her style do not resonate with me. It is amusing that the book of biography starts out with the author stating that he disliked Carr’s work. I will read on to see why he changed his mind. Maybe there is hope for me yet. I recall telling my mother, who admired and quoted T.S. Eliot (The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock is his most cited poem, I think), that I disliked his poetry. “You will enjoy it when you grow up,” she told me, cheerfully. Well, some of it speaks to me now. Since I am now 83, I am not hopeful about the rest. 

 I have to give the man his due, however. This is marvellous. 

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, 

The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes, 

Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, 

Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, 

Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, 

Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, 

And seeing that it was a soft October night, 

Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.