where the writers are
Ice, Max Beerbohm Zinaida S and what not

At least I have novel blog entry titles. Ice. Jeez. Ice. I can't tell you how slippery it has been in the past few days. Let's say Thumper would be laughing his head off at my antics - my Gold Rush boots with tread came apart last week - so now I have to use these training shoes that have no tread whatsoever. I have to learn to skate. But Nature is so beautiful isn't she during winter time ?   I took my camera with me today - my 25 Kr Olympus Trip - I had success earlier with shots - unlike the digital you have to weigh the possibilities of shots - unless you are very wealthy. I like the texture of the trees and the contrasts. For example today  saw some wonderful earth colour contrasts with the snow. The one in the box was taken earlier it is an equestrian statue of a king. 

I enjoy reading Max Beerbohm. I read the original letters between Max and Stephen Hudson (Sydney Alfred Schiff ) at Magdalen College, Oxford - also all the period articles and adore his caricatures .


I got a copy of his Saturday Revew theatre columns. He had to follow GBS! A real tough act to follow. GBS thought he was bigger than Bill Shakespeare and took every opportunity to say so. Really! MB started his column by announcing that he was unfit for the position as he did not really like drama. :-)

After writing the Zinaida S article - I thought more about the problem of art criticism and the market. The Russian oligarchs have changed the market totally through their purchases - so the stock of Zinaida S has shot up. Especially the nudes.

The what not - I started a poem but left it on the line so to speak.

 in between my life, like the black keys

on the piano downloaded on yesterday's

binge of downloading everything there

is, another melody is playing which 

I should listen to, according to my stars

perhaps it is a lesser one that can I relax

to, a darker more somber slow piece

that recounts those terrible moments

as at the same time a cheerful beat

with say the bongos in that rhythm

of the beach, the sea and the hot sex

as goes through a man's head every

thirty seconds, the kind of martini

dream,  like  the kid with icecream

dripping over his newly ironed shirt

wondering about why does his aunt,

his dog, his family, all have to die

then in the middle of the night I

would in a sweat, tither and  fret

about all the questions of Life,

only the next day to run and play

as if  there always  was  tomorrow

the very credo of the kid of eight