What I like so far:
The view from my chair of the gondola line. Little knots of metal on a fishing line making their way up and down Sulphur Mountain.
The flat faced cliffs of Mount Rundell from my triple-wide bed.
Reading a story called “The Latvians” in the Drunken Boat queue.
When the leaves at the top of the aspen tree shake in the wind. Greenbelow. Yellowabove.
My wide open sliding glass door.
The pine tree outside my balcony. Its height and broad trunk. Even though the dry outer branches look a little diseased. The pine cones hanging from the ends.
Reading E.M. Forster’s Aspects of the Novel. Differently this time.
That is why I must ask you to join me in repeating in exactly the right tone of voice the words with which this lecture opened. Do not say them vaguely and good-temperedly like a busman: you have not the right. Do not say them briskly and aggresively like the golfer: you know better. Say them a little sadly, and you will be correct. Yes–oh dear, yes–the novel tells a story.
Dreams are either logical or else mosaics made out of hard little fragments of the past and future.
Characters must not brood too long, they must not waste time running up and down ladders in their own insides, they must contribute [. . .]
The train whistle early in the morning. The train whistle in the middle of the afternoon. The train whistle late in the night.
Waking up at 5 A.M. to the bright white sliver of the last of the moon rising.
Waiting for thunder. Waiting for rain.