R.L. Swihart's Blog, page 125

Walking. Morning. Beauty. [10/14/18]

Julian "Clip" (10/14/18)

6.0 Or we might try to draw the responsibility more narrowly and apportion it more exactly. And not use equations and integers but instead express matters in traditional narrative terminology. So, for instance, if Tony And there the photocopy—this version of a version—stopped. “So, for instance, if Tony”: end of the line, bottom of the page. If I hadn’t immediately recognised Adrian’s handwriting, I might have thought this cliffhanger a part of some elaborate fakery concocted by Veronica. But I didn’t want to think about her—not for as long as it was possible to avoid doing so. Instead I tried to concentrate on Adrian and what he was doing. I don’t know how best to put this, but as I looked at that photocopied page I didn’t feel as if I was examining some historical document—one, moreover, requiring considerable exegesis. No, I felt as if Adrian was present in the room again, beside me, breathing, thinking. And how admirable he remained. I have at times tried to imagine the despair which leads to suicide, attempted to conjure up the slew and slop of darkness in which only death appears as a pinprick of light: in other words, the exact opposite of the normal condition of life. But in this document—which I took, on the basis of this one page, to consist of Adrian’s rational arguing towards his own suicide—the writer was using light in an attempt to reach greater light. Does that make sense?

Sunrise @ Colorado Lagoon (10/13/18)

Race Day Collage [2018]

Long Beach Marathon Pics (2018)

The Severn Bore

The Severn bore is a tidal bore seen on the tidal reaches of the River Severn in south western England. It is formed when the rising tide moves into the funnel-shaped Bristol Channel and Severn Estuary and the surging water forces its way upstream in a series of waves, as far as Gloucester and beyond. The bore behaves differently in different stretches of the river; in the lower, wider parts it is more noticeable in the deep channels as a slight roller, while the water creeps across the sand and mudflats. In the narrower, upper reaches, the river occupies the whole area between its banks and the bore advances in a series of waves that move upstream. Near Gloucester, the advancing water overcomes two weirs, and sometimes one in Tewkesbury, before finally petering out.Bores are present on about 130 days in the year, concentrated on the days immediately following the new and full moon. The size and precise timing of the bore depend on such things as the time of high tide, the barometric pressure, the wind speed and direction, the amount of water coming down the river and how well scoured the main drainage channels are. There are a number of viewpoints from which the bore can be seen, or viewers can walk along the river bank or floodbanks. Historically, the bore has been of importance to shipping visiting the docks at Gloucester, but this was alleviated by the construction of an alternative route, the Gloucester and Sharpness Canal, which opened in 1827. Nowadays the bore is of more interest to surfers and canoeists who attempt to ride the waves.

[Wikipedia:  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Severn_...]

The Severn Bore

Julian "Clip" and the Severn Bore

Another good "clip" from Sense of an Ending. And a mysterious night viewing of the Severn Bore.

For the third time (promise it's the last): Sorry for the Kindle jumble.

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I don’t want to give the impression that all I did at Bristol was work and see Veronica. But few other memories come back to me. One that does—one single, distinct event—was the night I witnessed the Severn Bore. The local paper used to print a timetable, indicating where best to catch it and when. But the first occasion I tried, the water didn’t seem to be obeying its instructions. Then, one evening at Minsterworth, a group of us waited on the riverbank until after midnight and were eventually rewarded. For an hour or two we observed the river flowing gently down to the sea as all good rivers do. The moon’s intermittent lighting was assisted by the occasional explorations of a few powerful torches. Then there was a whisper, and a craning of necks, and all thoughts of damp and cold vanished as the river simply seemed to change its mind, and a wave, two or three feet high, was heading towards us, the water breaking across its whole width, from bank to bank. This heaving swell came level with us, surged past, and curved off into the distance; some of my mates gave chase, shouting and cursing and falling over as it outpaced them; I stayed on the bank by myself. I don’t think I can properly convey the effect that moment had on me. It wasn’t like a tornado or an earthquake (not that I’d witnessed either)—nature being violent and destructive, putting us in our place. It was more unsettling because it looked and felt quietly wrong, as if some small lever of the universe had been pressed, and here, just for these minutes, nature was reversed, and time with it. And to see this phenomenon after dark made it the more mysterious, the more otherworldly.

Colorado Lagoon, Marine Stadium, Fall Coming On

Rereading Julian's "The Sense of an Ending"

Saw the film a month ago or so and have been meaning to reread the novel. Get a sense of the literary vs the cinematic. Which could lead to a reviewing of the film. Ad infinitum.

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A "condensed" quote re History (good licks throughout the book). I won't try to right the formatting wrong. Sorry, Julian.

“History is the lies of the victors,” I replied, a little too quickly. “Yes, I was rather afraid you’d say that. Well, as long as you remember that it is also the self-delusions of the defeated. Simpson?” Colin was more prepared than me. “History is a raw onion sandwich, sir.” “For what reason?” “It just repeats, sir. It burps. We’ve seen it again and again this year. Same old story, same old oscillation between tyranny and rebellion, war and peace, prosperity and impoverishment.” “Rather a lot for a sandwich to contain, wouldn’t you say?” We laughed far more than was required, with an end-of-term hysteria. “Finn?” “ ‘History is that certainty produced at the point where the imperfections of memory meet the inadequacies of documentation.’ ” “Is it, indeed? Where did you find that?” “Lagrange, sir. Patrick Lagrange. He’s French.” “So one might have guessed."