I just need to write for a bit
Let’s start with some simple music to set “a mood.”
What kind of music is this, anyways? It gives me shivers.
So currently, I’m sitting in my bed, bra off, window open, mug empty, and I have to pee.
In the past month, I’ve read #1–4 of Brian Vaughn’s Saga, all 1,157 pages of Haruki Murakami’s IQ84, #1–5 of Vaughn’s Ex Machina (I’ve really digging him), about 150 pages of David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest (although I must say however pretentiously that this is my second time through; it is different), Charles Burns’ Black Hole, Murakami’s Norweigan Wood, and probably some less noteworthy stuff.
Next up: Camus’ The Plague, finish both Saga and Ex Machina, get through 250+ pages of Infinite Jest for the even more pretentious book club tomorrow, Ivan Doig’s Work Song (I am tired of Montana, but again, it’s for a book club), some crappy mystery novels (Aunt Dimity series — don’t judge me), Zadie Smith’s White Teeth, Kurt Vonnegut’s Cat’s Cradle, Asimov’s Foundation series, and whatever-the-fuck-else I can find before I die of boredom and allergies in this 90 degree Montanan valley heat.
I promise I’m trying to not be too obnoxiously bland — what Wallace would call the mask of attitude — it’s just that I just needed to write out what I’m doing in order to make it somewhat real. The sky keeps changing and the days keep coming, but I promise: it doesn’t feel real. I’m moving between all of the worlds of the novels and they’re all so much more interesting than mine. They have things to do, bodies that are described, some point moving them forward throughout their lives.
But then I “regain consciousness” (originally just flippant remark re: the mental state of reading, perhaps apt after all), I realize that I haven’t showered yet and my stomach hurts because I either ate too much or not enough, that “it’s gonna be another hot one” is all it takes for me to declare my universal hatred, that my car needs gas but I need coffee and there’s none in the house, that there is more political shit happening than I would like to pay attention to, and that all I can do to quell these feelings is write about them on here and subject the good people of Medium (or, more realistically, whoever happens to stumble upon this) to my thoughts which both “show my privilege” and remind me that I should really write more often because holy God, all I can think about it how I need to write more.