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Oh yes. The first week of September was bloody hot too. Now I remember. No matter: slept with the window AC on and this morning, for the first time in a week, my knee didn't scream at me when I first bent it. Or stood on it, because mornings all week have seen me seriously considering going back to the zimmer frame to get me down the hallway. Between a spasming TFL thingy on the left and a crumpling knee on the right, it has not been fun. I hope when the cool comes back that things will improve, because what have I been doing clam shells and pilates and glute strengthening for two months for otherwise? Will remind me that before that I could do sit-to-stand exercises the requisite number of times while this last week my knee objected violently to the exercise.
Because life can't be all Marcus Corvinus all the time, I've started doing Duolingo in French. Probably below my level but revision never hurt-- and it wants me to talk as well, which Ishiguro translated into French doesn't. Also Ishiguro is still very much himself even in French, meaning oogey foreboding. And no, I have no idea how he manages it, or if in fact I'm the only person who has anxiety attacks reading him. There are nasty things hiding in his prose even if I can't see them-- even if I never see them-- and that makes him so much worse. It's kind of like the background intro of any M R James story before the real horrors show up: something is off, something menaces. Of course with James you *know* you're going to meet horrors so the anxiety is warranted. Ishiguro has the same off-ness to me but the horrors are rarely so obliging as to show themselves.
Because life can't be all Marcus Corvinus all the time, I've started doing Duolingo in French. Probably below my level but revision never hurt-- and it wants me to talk as well, which Ishiguro translated into French doesn't. Also Ishiguro is still very much himself even in French, meaning oogey foreboding. And no, I have no idea how he manages it, or if in fact I'm the only person who has anxiety attacks reading him. There are nasty things hiding in his prose even if I can't see them-- even if I never see them-- and that makes him so much worse. It's kind of like the background intro of any M R James story before the real horrors show up: something is off, something menaces. Of course with James you *know* you're going to meet horrors so the anxiety is warranted. Ishiguro has the same off-ness to me but the horrors are rarely so obliging as to show themselves.