I collapse unto a ball and roll away. Incoherent thoughts shall begin this discourse because if I don’t begin it now it will be days away and it frightens me to think that I cannot coalesce my thoughts into something coherently readable.
Before slipping off into the nether reaches of sleep last night it occurred to me that I am a compulsive reader. Someone whom is orally fixated on the printed word.
I just pushed published and now I can relax and write. It is happening, the act itself is liberating. Much like oral sex, the preamble to bigger things while we oscillate for days upon multiple subjects.
Point in fact is that I am never far from a book. Not all books can sustain my attention. In some way it may also reflect my taste in women. Though I am in a relationship, it seems I still see value in other women. Are some men predestined for polygamy? Or are they just pigs by nature? Or are my reading habits more indicative of my inability to stay focused on one thing for long. In some way, reading works as a ballast by keeping me upright.
In not equal parts, I read for information, inspiration and for a synaptic high. Also, I see reading as a mini tutorial on how to write, how to think, how to be. And hand to mouth, I read continuously.
You know too well my present fetish Murakami though that has waned since finishing Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki, still in the wings is a nearly read after dark and 1Q84 which is a tome of a book. But what derailed me was acquiring A Confederacy of Dunces which had me bustling with laughter from the start and then to read that writer had committed suicide 11 years before it was published and that what i was reading was literature, reminding me what I was reading was not. Not that Murakami is so bad a writer, style is hard to press through translation. But some writers just have that literary flair, that knack for telling a story that seems to include the full sweep of humanity. And I feel Murakami is just a tad short to be considered literature. I know this because I find myself skipping ahead whereas with literature you want to imbibe it like scotch. Leave it long enough in your mouth so as to quicken its entry into your blood stream.
Reading has various hand holts on me. Some pertain to the arts. Especially those concerning Michelangelo whom has a broad reach on my esthetic underpinning. Everything is via everything. Especially those things that connect reoccurring patterns. In some sense, I have concluded my study of Michelangelo. I can only stare at his architectural works and ponder for so long, or read about him or about his works but a greater thing has occurred that is perhaps more significant. I have discovered Francesco Borromini whom shares a similar fate to Brahmans. Both men were guided by their love of another man’s work. As was Brahmans to Beethoven; Borromini to Michelangelo.
I had not found the spice to spike my curiosity concerning the Baroque. I could not find access, there seem to be no discerning point. Sure my eye was entertained but my soul was left wanting. That is until I read a New York Times movie review of Eugene Green’s La Sapienza. And had to do an image search to see what this Borromini was about which lead me to the library where I found a dated book by Anthony Blunt who ties Borromini into Michelangelo and now I am hooked. Distracted if you will away from other reading matters.