I have just completed my first Reiki session in one of the upstairs meeting rooms.
I feel strange. Pleasantly strange. But oddly non-verbal. So I can’t really tell you much about it. Except that it was strange, and pleasant, and yes, “things” did happen. Mostly around the face and the soles of the feet.
Of course, I do realise that people whose only contact with me is via this blog may raise their eyebrows at the use of the word “oddly” above. Considering the oddly non-verbal state of this blog over recent weeks. But maybe this experience will have unblocked my Blogging Chakra, or summat. You never know. It would be nice, though.
I take it all back re. The Line Of Beauty, by the way. Once Hollinghurst gets over his narrator’s breathless obsession with antique furniture (the Louis Quinze escritoire “with fronds of ormolu” that used to belong to Madame De Pompadour being some sort of campy apotheosis in this regard), the novel takes a sharp upward turn. From then on, it’s almost unreservedly brilliant: beautifully observed to an almost forensic level of detail, and quietly devastating. You think you know roughly where it’s heading, and it almost takes you there, but with subtle plot twists that have left me chewing over the novel’s morally ambiguous conclusion ever since. Proper Literature, indeed. A richly deserved Booker winner.
I really do feel quite altered right now, you know. This is all very interesting.