Thinking about The Greater Trumps (which I'll be rereading in the next few weeks), The Place of the Lion, and That Hideous Strength (not by Williams, but written in his style for his honor) and the significance of the single house outside the city where everything comes to a head. It should have been obvious, I suppose, but I hadn't thought the phrase 'outside the city' until I came upon some old college notes remarking on the importance of the city as a place of interdependence and coinherence. Picturing Anthony riding through the city on his flaming horse, then the car carrying Lothair out of the city and his daughter's strange vision... to a house on a hill, or in a valley, or between the trees, where the Fool dances or the fire rages or the beasts of the earth and the birds of the air flock with graven insistence. It always comes to a head outside the city.
Dear Nathaniel, I am microwaving pie that Mom bought up in Oak Glen this week on her way home from the orthodontist. As I put it in the microwave, I was full of sadness that I was not in Oak Glen with her. Why did I not go? I was working. I want to see the trees turn. I want to wander slowly through autumnal gift shops. Under the water, you cannot sense the approach of the seasons. Even here it is difficult because, after all, it's California. But I can still sense it. After three seasons in Illinois and one in Scotland, it must be with me for good. Or at least for a while. Because I am all abuzz with eagerness for fall and winter, for turkeys and dried leaves and Santa. I should start cooking again this fall. Fall foods are my favorite. Baked squash dripping with melted butter and brown sugar, pumpkin soup... this year, if I have enough money, I will put together a holiday dinner for my friends. And we will drink Scandinavian mulled wine, which is the most wonderful thing I have e...
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