Friday, July 30, 2010

I have been spending every day reading, mostly, which makes one feel simultaneously sort of productive and also very lazy. I know my mind is engaged in authoring the text along with the author as it's zipping along, scanning the pages, creating in my mind's eye every carefully chosen metaphor, however the image is rendered, breaking down and distilling its meaning, linking it up with every conceit and overarching theme, teasing out the the components of the arguments made, attempting to reach understanding, and am very busy seeing my own circumstances in whatever lies before me. I feel fed and happy and know how much the activity is the activity of a person happy and active in solitude. I walk down to the library and spend hours wandering the ailes. I'm sure this is peculiar, and I'm sure that so much novel reading where characters are allowed their transgressions and idiosyncracies has persuaded me into being so complicit in my peculiarities. I'll scan titles, breathe in the smell of age old dust, lavish myself with the distinct and sacred silence of the place. I feel so much like myself being alone in there, sitting on the sterile carpet floor, reading Barthes expound on our faulty lover's discourse. Does everyone so constantly construct the mythology of their lives? I think it must largely be so, in fact I think to be in love we do it both of ourselves and others- imagining them into being. What great writers of our lives we all are!

I have difficulty, after spending vast amounts of time so happily immersed in fictive worlds, coming out of them, knowing where to focus in real live interaction, what I should have taken from the text out into every kind of discourse. But I feel somehow, electrified, and more open, though it may not seem so. I'm searching for something, I'm yearning for it, I'm honestly hoping to know.

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