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Aldebaran of Bluster
Mar. 1st, 2019 11:39 pmStill struggling against inertia. My earlier efforts to get exercise in spite of bad weather, by using a step indoors, made me feel I had accomplished something. Unfortunately, it may have caused unintended consequences. My joints have been giving me relentless discomfort for the last couple of nights, so I haven't been sleeping well.
It is a perverse truth that whenever I'm supposed to read something, I will find myself reading anything but that. I started out yesterday to read more of Amy Kittelstrom's The Religion of Democracy for discussion with our dinner group from church. After just a few pages, I picked up a copy of The Storyteller by Mario Vargas Llosa that the Sparrowhawk left lying around, and ripped through that in the course of the afternoon instead, followed by The Fifth Season by N.K. Jemisin. Back when I was "supposed" to be reading that, I couldn't, but as an alternative to some other book I was supposed to read, it worked nicely. Then I blew through the second book in the trilogy, The Obelisk Gate, last night and this morning. Of course, I didn't do much of anything else. I can read fast like that, but when I do, it's kind of like being stoned. I don't know if I'm going around in a daze because I'm depressed, or because I read too much as an antidote to being depressed. This endless, ENDLESS winter would put me in a coma--if I could sleep. But I can't. I read, and growl, and thrash around.
Tonight we met our friends at a soul food restaurant where the food was excellent, and then went back to Keith and Cindy's house where we talked about the book and had dessert. I'm still not crazy about this book, but everything else about the evening was great.
It is a perverse truth that whenever I'm supposed to read something, I will find myself reading anything but that. I started out yesterday to read more of Amy Kittelstrom's The Religion of Democracy for discussion with our dinner group from church. After just a few pages, I picked up a copy of The Storyteller by Mario Vargas Llosa that the Sparrowhawk left lying around, and ripped through that in the course of the afternoon instead, followed by The Fifth Season by N.K. Jemisin. Back when I was "supposed" to be reading that, I couldn't, but as an alternative to some other book I was supposed to read, it worked nicely. Then I blew through the second book in the trilogy, The Obelisk Gate, last night and this morning. Of course, I didn't do much of anything else. I can read fast like that, but when I do, it's kind of like being stoned. I don't know if I'm going around in a daze because I'm depressed, or because I read too much as an antidote to being depressed. This endless, ENDLESS winter would put me in a coma--if I could sleep. But I can't. I read, and growl, and thrash around.
Tonight we met our friends at a soul food restaurant where the food was excellent, and then went back to Keith and Cindy's house where we talked about the book and had dessert. I'm still not crazy about this book, but everything else about the evening was great.
