We played mad tennis this morning. We made a ferocious team versus an eleven-year-old and our spritely seventy-something-year-old couch. We manage to win a few games here and there.
I finally finished my biography of Marcel Duchamp, for which I am to be one day rewarded with a trip to Philadelphia where his major works are on display. His life and work, his life as his art work, his anti-art as art, etc. fascinate me. I once turned up my nose in the Picasso museum in Paris. Now I salivate at the thought of making a special trip to Philadelphia to see Duchamp's Glass. Life is like that.
Duchamp's demise (as all biography's must end) opened a floodgate for me. Within 24 hours I had read Julia Glass's first novel, Three Junes (highly recommended, especially if you need good literary fiction as a post-Duchampian salve). I am in the middle of The Road to Coorain, a work of autobiography. Next I plan to read Uglies, a young adult novel. Fast. Furious. And strangely ecclectic.
Tomorrow at 6 am my parents arrive on the Korona train from Budapest. They have traveled from Kansas to Transylvania in one long shot. I expect them to drop dead from exhaustion when they arrive. I am sure while they are here they will absorb sights and the local flavors, and offer little commentary on their impressions. Yet I look forward to their reactions to life here in the Carpathian valley.
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