13.6.13

chain reading, &

So it is that you warm up to the routine, the one that ultimately always settles in after, what?,
a certain age,
a certain irrevocable bending of the mind.
You eat the same thing for breakfast each morning: bran with soy or almond milk, glass of water with B12 vitamin, banana with peanut butter. During which you internet-surf. After which you hook the laptop up to the sound system and listen to what are by now your favorite, go-to podcasts, always with BBC World News first followed sometimes by NPR Fresh Air (you've realized that Terry Gross has the best job on earth) and sometimes PBS News Hour, Star Talk Radio with Neil DeGrasse Tyson,  Radiolab.

During which you do the dishes, washing and then arranging them methodically on the metal drying rack; sweep the floor with big broom first, handheld broom second; feed the cats.

Before you go for your mid-morning run you read for about an hour.

In fact you've gotten into the habit of "chain reading." Not even finished with the book you're on and already dreaming of the next, will it be a theory or a beach read, a Sontag or a King. You even sometimes read multiple books all at once; this is done as a means for cutting the distaste that builds when a book is, well, not really good at all. Much to your chagrin.

Konstantin Kalynovich,

But.

You read and read and just like running or eating bananas-with-peanut-butter or talking at your cats in a voice that sounds something like a babushka gurgling broken English to her half-dead house plants the more you do said thing, things, the more you want to do them. Well, no: the more you need, have, must do.

So much so that you forget about all of the things you've been actively trying to forget about this whole time,
the acne no one else ever sees,
the fizz-pop in your temples,
the student debt,
the anxiety over being (potentially) boring, old-hat, lazy, (dare you say it) square.
So much so that you forget the urgency, the sting of that worry, until it begins to seem like it really has always been: a joke. A big, long, poorly related, self-deprecating, ignorant joke.

This is another one of those "this is just to say"s about growing happier and more content with life as you now lead it. Critically, with purpose. Mouth always open and hands in your front pockets but always at the ready. Coolly. Radically, even.

And what about that book club?

1 comment:

  1. A two-woman book club would be good for me, since my reading habits have become decidedly less methodical over the past year (especially). You are never going to be square, love.

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