Also, freakin’ television has taken over my life. If only I would have known American Idol was going to be on three days a week instead of two, and that Top Model was starting anew midseason, and that I was going to get addicted to reality slop like Wife Swap and Super Nanny… well, don’t know what I would have done. But strides to prevent an after-work life that revolves around TV would most definitely have been made. It snuck up on me, though, and now I am addicted.
Speaking of… I’m on my seventh or eighth Diet Cherry of the day… feeling a little jittery … and cancerous… from the aspartame.***
Anyway (tangents!) I know some of the orange pylons road-blocking my creativity come from this inability I’ve had since moving back to Texas to finish a book. I’ve started – heck, I’ve gotten two- or three- or four hundred pages into – five books since I moved back, but I haven’t finished any of them. Cavalier and Klay turned disappointing three-quarters of the way through; Vanity Fair was ruined when I saw the so-so movie and lost interest; I took a break from Bend Sinister and reread Lolita (one of the only things I’ve been able to finish – the others are The Cheese Monkeys – again – and Magical Thinking, which I read in its entirety on an airplane); and I’m trying with JR, I really am, but every time I pick it up, I have to backtrack 10 pages to remember where I left off, and end up further behind than ahead. Agh!
It’s gotten to the point where I won’t let myself look at the fiction section at Border’s because I know I’ll buy something on my to-read list**** and have to add another half-read (OK, OK, quarter-read) book on the pile on my nightstand. I’m running out of room, so the new motto is, “only 553 pages left to go.” And I will finish. Sometime next year.
* I’ve become lax in my footnoting, I know. Your concerns have been duly noted, and now, duly footnoted.
** I know I said I threw all intentions out, but I really want to do something that looks like it belongs in Suede magazine. Haven’t heard of it? I’m not surprised. It’s new. It’s for black women. Most would define its design as “nauseating,” but I think it’s daring and pretty. Not like this other magazine for black women, which shall remain nameless to protect the innocent (i.e. me).
*** Or, as some pronounce it, “aspartamine,” as in “I grew up on the asparta-mean streets of suburbia, and now look at me: facing down this addiction.”
**** Naturally, I can’t generate the list now that I actually want to; when I try to deny the existence of the list (list? What list? I don’t need a list because I’m perfectly happy reading what I’m reading right now!) it’s quite easy to spout off and make additions to. And of course, there is the second list, the one of books I want to read again (Travels with Charley, Pride and Prejudice, White Noise, All the King’s Men, Invisible Man….), that I can’t even think about right now. Shoot! But I obviously am! Crap!*****
***** I originally typed, Carp!, which is, I think, on the fast track to exclamation glory. Everything should cycle back to fish (“I caught you a delicious bass,” “My bass feels seaworthy,” etc. etc.)