Lois directed me to The Buried Giant by Kazuo Ishiguro.
I don't read as much as I did before the MA. All that literature without writing my own. It's a burden. Lois is a literature guide, and it was in this role that she subbed for a birthing professor and found The Buried Giant.
I bought a paperback copy. Some things are not meant for digital consumption. Ishiguro creates in this category. So I lay down with the paperback copy of The Buried Giant, me spent from too much activity although I have a week and a day left on my ordered restraint from labor, exercise, and lifting.
Liver --- biopsy.
[Such is Rheumatoid Arthritis that it requires tinctures of liver poison to allow me activity which the liver then forbids after its being sampled to diagnose level of damage from the liver poison.]
Two paragraphs and a sentence into the book, I felt the rumble of dialog from the characters who have laid low these 5 years.
Faunt from the driver's seat of his pickup. Janie in the shop. Edgwin everywhere and not completely aware of where. The trees. The resprouted locust fenceposts to be precise. A resurrection.
I am writing. And it has been so long, I stop to talk process with myself so I can confirm later that it happened, in case it doesn't again for 5 more years. I make notes in the phone just in case I get lost in Something Important.
Something Important: I found that the domain is now available for AThousandWonders.com. Buy it. Mess around with redirect. Adrian home from work early. Distracted. Lawn work, Adrian. Drilling for concrete anchors for the hose reel, me. Supper, with a lovely kale, cranberry, and pecan salad with sweet onion dressing. TV share time. Early bedtime, Adrian. Writing about process here, me.
Not a word written on the book. But they are still talking in my head, and there's the thing about resurrection, and Ishiguro is real magic and magical realism in a man package. So there is hope. I am about to write. Let's see what happens.