The Post-Past Time of an Old School Fellow
There is so much to read. Just this pirate's eyes fah and PHCN isn't helping matters. But what more can I say, I have had my candle night sessions and at some point almost burnt down my rented apartment in the name of reading Wole Soyinka's You must Set Forth At Dawn. My brother, the construction engineer, Morgan Abayomii Oluwatosin can remember. My hair almost got burnt and it gave off a deja vu feeling--Soyinka almost got his head burnt in the name of reading.
Now I use rechargeable lamps because I still prefer my stories and poems in paperbacks. I have loads of online books and journals but it will take me more hours to finish reading a digital than its printed version. I'm still old school because I got weaned into reading and writing from the 'papermarche' of colourful books to hardcover books of Fanon, Yambo Ounolaguem, Krishan Kumar and Harry Gailey, inherited from the modest library of my father. The time frame for reading only differs when I am doing editing, the quintessential surgical operation for creative hemorrhages.
It differs when I am scouring blogposts too--perhaps because of the conversational feel. Nevertheless, I am assimilating to the new school, an old kindle reader is near my bed, first-generation kindle reader, another reader app on my phone--I need a kindle fire. If you love me buy one for me. The good old printed material is a potent nostalgia reference as it as much a function of my life.
I am still a slow reader, there are books I should have read that I haven't. I buy them and store them up. I'm in the same shoes as Azafi Omoluabi-Ogosi who has more than 50 books scheduled to be read on retirement, while she continues to read others and buy more--I should have lesser books than Azafi. The funny thing is, what is retirement for an entrepreneur? There isn't largely a retirement, it is usually a 'refire-ment' or a realignment of experiences garnered through life.
I am reading tonight again, probing the writer's creative process and recognising the flaws. It is a warm night, the stars have travelled with the sun and the clouds are grey and deep blue. The firmament is filled with letters waiting for writers to piece it into a masterpiece and for wise men to discern the age from the scrolls that were once sacred, locked and restricted.
This is my post-past time™ just like yours is to pray before you sleep or to chat with your favourite beau. Reading is one of my own existential notifications, just like social media posts are for many people.
I'm not married but I'm sure by this time it would be wrong not to be by her side because you are reading a writer that doesn't even come from your nation, and you are not getting paid for it. I am trying to imagine the onslaught, the anger of a lover whose time has come--love conquers all and it is because we love or try to love that we do the things we do.