Dedicated readers, all four of you, please accept my apology, although I never promised you consistency.
How OK I am with being inside worries me, albeit only slightly. In these forty-nine (?) days, I’ve read Marx and Tolstoy and Camus and Hesse and Flaubert. All great guys, really stand-up writers. But I started reading Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie two days ago, and now the thought of returning to Anna Karenina produces a sensation in me not unlike the one I feel when I think about cleaning out the shower drain.
Read the book, basically. It’s real good.
Other things I’ve been into:
- This Jeff Buckley cover of “I Know It’s Over.”
- Wondering what my life would have been like had I stayed in America.
- Wondering whether I could live in New York City without having a meltdown.
- Thinking about the past.
- Inexplicably, missing Greyhound buses.
- Thinking that education is really, really important.
- Feeling pessimistic and optimistic in the same breath.
- Herbal teas.
So that’s all I’ve got for today.