Fungible

Yesterday, time seemed to come to a standstill, I could see the seconds ticking out before me, in super slow motion; I had time to do everything, at least twice, but there was so little to accomplish. Drinking coffee just made me spin at a higher frequency; the world dawdled, lagged behind me. I can't say I was bored, I was facinated at how time could be so fungible.

I made my usual round of calls and e-mails; I received the usual silence, apathy, misunderstanding in return.

I jumped into Anthony Burgess' 'Dead Man in Deptford,' a novel about Christopher Marlowe (yes, this is my new obsesssion). Burgess assumes that you know everything about Marlowe's world, and thankfully, since I just finished 'The Reckoning,' I do. Marlowe lived in a world of spies, conspirators, skullduggery, betrayal. If I hadn't read 'The Reckoning,' I think I'd be totally baffled, dazzled by Burgess' incredible verbal dexterity, but baffled. Burgess (see 'A Clockwork Orange') doesn't make it easy, but from the first words, you know you are in the hands of a master novelist.

Marlowe, Poet/Spy is a perfect subject for Burgess; 'Dead Man in Deptford,' is an audacious labor of love.