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OK, not sewing tonight, because of a (probably weather-related) headache.
I saw a hawk of some sort while waiting or the bus after work. This isn't unusual, but it wasn't one of the harriers I normally spot north of Bloor St. It didn't have the ragged wing shape, and it was working alone, wheeling and darting about.
After watching a couple of videos of birds of prey in flight, I'm leaning towards peregrine falcon for the speed; I just wish I could remember for sure if the wings were that pointy. Otherwise, most likely a red-tailed hawk, which would be more common in this city.
I'm not crazy -- the story I recall reading in the New Yorker some twenty years ago *was* by Murakami: Sleep. It looks as though this is the complete story, ambiguous, ominous ending and all. I'd wondered for years whether it was an excerpt from a novel, and had just broken off on a cliff-hanger, but nope.
There's a thing I've noticed with both Murasaki and Banana Yoshimoto -- I don't know whether it's an artifact of the translation process, or a favourite technique of post-modern Japanese writers; the *events* of their stories are frequently bizarre, but the narrative style is almost boring -- usually one of the characters recounts the events in an utterly straightforward manner, like a high-school student writing an essay. Yoshimoto's N.P. involves suicide, half-sibling incest, attempted murder and a collection of stories that may be accused -- but it takes place almost entirely in crowded modern Tokyo, and in broad daylight, with the characters saying things like "I'm afraid their love is doomed and will destroy both of them. But it can't be helped. Would you like another cup of coffee?"
I saw a hawk of some sort while waiting or the bus after work. This isn't unusual, but it wasn't one of the harriers I normally spot north of Bloor St. It didn't have the ragged wing shape, and it was working alone, wheeling and darting about.
After watching a couple of videos of birds of prey in flight, I'm leaning towards peregrine falcon for the speed; I just wish I could remember for sure if the wings were that pointy. Otherwise, most likely a red-tailed hawk, which would be more common in this city.
I'm not crazy -- the story I recall reading in the New Yorker some twenty years ago *was* by Murakami: Sleep. It looks as though this is the complete story, ambiguous, ominous ending and all. I'd wondered for years whether it was an excerpt from a novel, and had just broken off on a cliff-hanger, but nope.
There's a thing I've noticed with both Murasaki and Banana Yoshimoto -- I don't know whether it's an artifact of the translation process, or a favourite technique of post-modern Japanese writers; the *events* of their stories are frequently bizarre, but the narrative style is almost boring -- usually one of the characters recounts the events in an utterly straightforward manner, like a high-school student writing an essay. Yoshimoto's N.P. involves suicide, half-sibling incest, attempted murder and a collection of stories that may be accused -- but it takes place almost entirely in crowded modern Tokyo, and in broad daylight, with the characters saying things like "I'm afraid their love is doomed and will destroy both of them. But it can't be helped. Would you like another cup of coffee?"
