Literary Influences

I was sitting outside the back door under the pergola yesterday reading a book. It was hot but I wanted fresh air. I was sitting on a kitchen chair, in the corner between the yellow wall and the sliding glass door. My book was Species of Spaces by Georges Perec.

A fly settled on my left leg. I brushed it off with my left hand. It returned to my left arm. I flapped my arm, it flew away, returned and landed on my right arm. When I waved it away again, it flew back and landed on my right leg. This state of affairs continued, with random variations, for over twenty minutes, while I remained engrossed in my book.

Georges Perec was describing the objects on his work table, what they were, where they had come from, whether he had had them for a long time or acquired them recently, whether they really ought to have been kept somewhere else, whether he had too many of them ( such as pencils ) and what they looked like. He said it was important to him to do this because it marked out his space, it was an oblique way of approaching his work, a way of talking about his history, work, preoccupations, and a way of grasping his experience, at the very point where it emerged.

You are brilliant, Georges Perec, I thought. I really ought to have a closer look at this pesky fly. So the next time I felt it settle on my skin I looked down instead of twitching. But alas, no matter how many times I tried to get a good look at my fly, I failed, because it flew away before I had time to focus.

There was only one time I got anything like a proper look, just 2 seconds. It was a substantially middle-sized common house fly, with white bulging multi-cellular eyes, and a irridescent green bottom emerging from under its transparent wings. Interesting, but not prepossessing. I could see that it felt much the same about me.