Okay. I’m happy to have people rely on me for some things: not for fucking others. This botany project has turned into pure bullshit. Pure fucking bullshit. Hmmph. And my back is completely fucked, which makes sitting at that bullshit hard. My painful back confuses me. Miss G. volunteered the idea that 11 hours in a Greyhound combined with a series of strange beds, luggage and odd bits of stress, like being table-waited by an ex’s new woman, riding a scooter down country highways for an hour and hoisting babies at Mel’s birthday might have something to do with it. She’s probably right.
Last night, while I waited for a home cocktail of codeine and alcohol to take me to a painless dreamland, I finished reading Hunger’s Rogues, a book by Jacques Sandulescu which is apparently so obscure amazon.ca doesn’t have it. I’m not surprised. It’s not Pulitzer material or anything. His sentences are worse than the Guardian’s. However, it is so good at painting pictures of the men who scraped a tidy profit off the black market in post WWII Germany, and contains many repetitions of the self-exculpatory phrase “who cares? They were the ones who started the war . . .” as they variously fleece and befriend the people who’s country they’re stuck in (“they” being a bunch of non-Germans who were stuck there for various reasons, waiting to be shipped off home or to the New World). I really reccommend it if it crosses your path – nothing if not exciting.