It is the wee hours and I have finally started reading Proust. Only the first hundred or so pages of the first volume… but already I am stunned, sitting here in silence. I think I won’t recommend him to my sister because for her it would be insufferable reading, but for me it’s perfect, absolutely perfect, a kind of pulp music.
It’s been a while since I read anything, really seriously sat down and read something page by page. Certainly not since I graduated. To even begin, I had to grapple with myself on the floor until I gave way to the nobler impluse and unplugged the television (which is really nothing more to me than CNN these days).
Planning also is addictive. Writing resumés, writing applications to this or that, making lists, taking tests, compiling paperwork of all kinds, laying every minor detail in a long line in your mind’s eye, stretching from now until somewhere in middle age. It’s like making an incredible amount of progress at absolutely nothing at all…almost as though since I came back from Los Angeles (which coincides roughly with the WTC-mess), I’ve lost months from my life without a trace.
I need to take some more pictures. Long to-do list tomorrow, but I may try and squeeze it in somewhere.
I hate it when you make someone really miserable by accident and you realize only afterward what has happened and what you should have done, but by then it’s too late… and you just sit and reflect, feeling stupid and guilty, like you should have known better.
I seem to do this all the time.
I don’t know how to end this one, it’s kind of a ramble. I guess I end by saying good-night.