i've surrounded myself in books. mexico city blues. the little prince. tennessee williams. the bell jar. a portrait of the artist as a young man. pablo neruda. the beat reader. one flew over the cuckoos nest. so many pages. of paper. of words. of sentences. of ideas. and thoughts. of insanity. shelves in bookstores. top to bottom. bending back my neck, then crouching down low. a very small downtown street, alone. it is good to be alone. i am never alone. and remember what it was like in paris. all over europe, the solitary contemplative time, of roaming a strange city. it is a strange comfortable feeling.
james joyce. this book is dry. and i do not care so much about it except for the fact that i started it and now i must finish it. i also told myself i would finish the chapter on buddhism in my world religions book. i like crossing things off my list. whether it is countries or books or afi movies or poets or theatre movements.
i could read all day. please, give me permission to just read all day. o.k.?
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