(Daughter is playing Rock Band, specifically Beatles. It is entering my psyche.)
So, we went to the coffee shop today*, and I bought a book of critical essays titled The Beowulf Poet. The front cover has a name written in it, in a very vertical script that reminds me of my oldest brother’s handwriting – Joan, some Germanic name, ending with two F’s?
Joan has left tiny check-marks along the margins of the text. I haven’t quite figured out what train of thought she was pursuing, but I’m just 20 pages in. Someone owned the book after her, because I can’t see Joan, with her sharp pencil with a slightly hard lead, defacing the book with a pink highlighter.
So, with a bow to my own possible mortality, or maybe it’s a nod to the value of the hive-mind,I think I will start by writing my name in all my books, starting with this one. Not crossing out Joan’s name, but adding in parenthesis between her name and mine, that some unfortunately modern and unknown soul had the book, leaving the pink marker as her commentary. And when I’m not here, or when I send it back out into the world, adding something – at the end? Referring back here while I’m reading Tolkien’s translations? Don’t know.
The book has already added a thing to my head – “a wilderness of dragons.” As sensible as a murder of crows.
looking out onto the Lake; a cold morning.
*One of the three hip-and-aware in this little tiny area. I’m lucky there. Here. Whatever.
Also, Daughter is now playing “Dear Prudence.” I think I have to resuscitate my turntable.