literacy rate: rare.
18 February 2013 § Leave a comment
For weeks, nigh months, I’ve felt an intellectual drought. It has felt at times that out of a want to be clean, I’ve stepped into the bathtub, and, not knowing what to do once I got there, drowned.
It never occurred to me before to be ashamed, or embarrassed, of suicidal thoughts. Thank god, too, because that could have added a whole schema of complications that I was not prepared to cope with.
For days I’ve been sleeping with books. Thinking, if I spend enough time around them, maybe I’ll want to read more than a few pages. At home, true immersion rarely happens. You know, that Imustkeepreadingthisnomatterwhathappens feeling of being spun into a climbing rope long enough to rappel from your first LSD trip. I had that with The Chronology of Water recently. I wanted to make love to Lidia’s words so often I’m surprised Heather didn’t become concerned. Maybe she did.
The point is, three pages of Wendell Berry and I’m at capacity for well-articulated thought. Inevitably, I get caught up in stories at friends houses, at parties, in hat shops where books are exclusively decoration. And just before I’m due for an appointment. In fact, that’s usually when I’m most productive: when I’m supposed to be somewhere else. For example; just three minutes ago I told Jordan I’d head to the climbing gym to meet him. I hung up, sat down, and started writing.
Something is seriously wrong here.