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'Many people confuse Leonora Carrington with Dora Carrington'. Including me, wondering why a fringe Bloomsburyite was setting a novel in a Spanish-speaking country. That sorted, I still sent The Ear Trumpet back to the library unfinished ('One person is waiting') because this wasn't the kind of old woman I wanted to be reading. So back to the witches I went.
I'd forgotten that Greebo gets humanized in three of the books, not one, though July brain being as it is I've already forgotten what the second occurrence was. Somewhere in Lords and Ladies, I assume. But also- and I don't know if this is July brain or that vanishing texts thing-- my recollection of the end of Maskerade is of Agnes walking back to Lancre while Granny and Nanny ride in the coach and make unkind remarks about her size. I wasn't looking forward to that bit and was simultaneously relieved and puzzled when nothing of the sort happened.
One must move to move but moving hurts, so meanwhile the house gets messier and messier. Thus I've started five minute clean-ups. To date I've managed to scrape almost all the hard water and soap scum buildup from the bathroom sink, using a kind of pumice stone intended for toilets, actually. There are products to remove lime and soap buildup but they smell to high heaven and almost certainly rot the lungs, and I'm not using them in this weather. Yesterday I finally cleaned behind the toilet, using a specially bought long handled swifter duster to reach there, and regretted it immediately because it had the Febreeze stink to it. Had to wet it anyway, because bathroom dust mingles with steam to form a coating, so the smell was slightly ameliorated. But anyway, it's clean for the moment. And today I washed down my bedroom table, much the worse for eighteen months worth of eating breakfast there, and furniture polished it, including the rings from stuff that was dry, really, when I put them down. I fancy it's past saving but no matter. It came from a yard sale 25 years ago and more, and I didn't buy it for its looks.
And I finally hung up the sweater that was draped over a living room chair for months. That's not not wanting to move but a much more basic resistance that I still haven't got a handle on.
I'd forgotten that Greebo gets humanized in three of the books, not one, though July brain being as it is I've already forgotten what the second occurrence was. Somewhere in Lords and Ladies, I assume. But also- and I don't know if this is July brain or that vanishing texts thing-- my recollection of the end of Maskerade is of Agnes walking back to Lancre while Granny and Nanny ride in the coach and make unkind remarks about her size. I wasn't looking forward to that bit and was simultaneously relieved and puzzled when nothing of the sort happened.
One must move to move but moving hurts, so meanwhile the house gets messier and messier. Thus I've started five minute clean-ups. To date I've managed to scrape almost all the hard water and soap scum buildup from the bathroom sink, using a kind of pumice stone intended for toilets, actually. There are products to remove lime and soap buildup but they smell to high heaven and almost certainly rot the lungs, and I'm not using them in this weather. Yesterday I finally cleaned behind the toilet, using a specially bought long handled swifter duster to reach there, and regretted it immediately because it had the Febreeze stink to it. Had to wet it anyway, because bathroom dust mingles with steam to form a coating, so the smell was slightly ameliorated. But anyway, it's clean for the moment. And today I washed down my bedroom table, much the worse for eighteen months worth of eating breakfast there, and furniture polished it, including the rings from stuff that was dry, really, when I put them down. I fancy it's past saving but no matter. It came from a yard sale 25 years ago and more, and I didn't buy it for its looks.
And I finally hung up the sweater that was draped over a living room chair for months. That's not not wanting to move but a much more basic resistance that I still haven't got a handle on.
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That's very Sohlberg, which from me is high praise. What I hadn't realized, or hadn't remembered, was that Dora was a painter too.
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