Without Lifting A Finger

The rain changed things a bit. It was raining when I got up (6-ish), so I decided to drive to Sunset Beach's Starbucks and finish King, Queen, Knave. Took my time, finished the book and started on a new one: The Good Story (co-authored by Coetzee and Kurtz). Then, instead of my usual: the bird reserve, I circled behind the Jack in the Box, and found lots of free parking (news to me). From there I walked a few miles along the biking/walking path in front of the fire-pitted strand. *                 

Left Sentimental Education (I sometimes jump back and forth between countries) for Breyten Breytenbach's Dog Heart . From Point C to Point B: From Coetzee to Breytenbach. The surprise rain (who would've thought) kept me in the coffee shop reading longer than usual, but I've still only taken a small bite: I got to page 25. Would I have thought "painterly composition" (this is memoir, not his poetry) if I hadn't known already that he was also a painter? Hard to say. From the opening section: BEGINNING, FOR THE READER : To cut a long story short: I am dead.    Do you think I'm joking? Am I not lurking behind these rustling words--perhaps a little thicker around the waist, a little darker in the mind? Am I not the writer sitting in the dappled light of the pepper tree, pursing my lips and closing my eyes to the glare of a yellow fire baking the valley?    My mind fumbles for a buried reference; I'm on the verge of remembering the odour of ancient cl...