Moby Dick

Sunday and I have indulged in a few afternoon beers, from the enormous stock left by Mater. I am in the midst of a crash diet, but remnants remain in the form of Snickers bars and cookies. My diet runs off the fact that I never shop, therefore never have any food in the house, thus I can drink mean green endlessly and never a chocolate bar will pass my cakehole. Until supplies are dry, my plans are foiled.

As posted on Facebook, I am currently in love with all things Herman Melville, that's Moby Dick to the uninformed. I grabbed a couple more of his works of Project Gutenberg and have been truly relishing the rich, seafaring, a-roving language of the leviathan novel. One can get lost in the words lying under the soporific lulling of the fan. Badly for me, sleep always comes too soon when reading. I sat through the movie this morning too, which was masterful. I remember glimpses of it from 30 years ago on BBC 2 on a rainy Sunday afternoon, the tattooed harpooner and other salty shipmates made a fantastic tale, and I was reminded of the excellent Billy Bud with Peter Ustinov. The prophetic dialogue of Moby Dick is of a biblical scale; rising once more before sinking into the waves forevermore. Poor Captain Ahab. I made a point of reciting the exact and correct pronunciation to Grace of "Ahab".

Mass private classes loom, of which I am not amused. I'm not quite sure why I am doing it. One wretched child dominates my thoughts. I may have to have words, if intolerance raises its ugly head.

We have had a very lazy weekend, sleeping and lounging about, though we did make it into the garden which makes an excellent tonic and exercise. I supposed we are still under the aftermath of Mater's visit.

I tracked down Sting's live album, "Bring On the Night", circa 1985. Released after, The Dream of the Blue Turtles which I still enjoy, though anything later I abhorred, Sting being reduced to the dishwater tripe normally reserved for Phil Collins. I remember attempting to persuade myself that the follow up album which I acquired in Australia in about 1988 was good. My effort didn't last and I moved on to something better, Rickie Lee Jones, Van Morrison and Bob Dylan, courtesy of Stuart Barrett. Thank God.

I enjoyed a fun night at Patrick's last Friday. I fell asleep on the floor quite early as usual and was awoken to leave at about 2. It was fun while I remained awake however, and possibly even as I slept. Tom was there, but I was too wasted to converse with any sincerity. Patrick has been friendly of late, perhaps as news of our departure has spread. He can be fun, as the Irish are, as long as things remain light. I welcome the companionship.