How can we survive another day?
I recently read Uncle Tungsten: Memories of a Chemical Boyhood, which is an affectionate and detailed memoir by Oliver Sacks. And now—I must acquire a wall size periodic table so I can memorize the noble gases. The idea of reading a book and learning something fresh lifts me from the gravity of stagnation.
I wasn’t a doomsayer at birth, but I was born reluctant.
Everything has always been slightly fuzzy to me. I am constantly practicing The Ninja Warrior Feigning Sleep Pose: which embraces the power of sublime ignorance.
Today is fresh produce. If I bought it yesterday it would be unripe. If I bought it tomorrow it would be decadent.
I love the scene in Silver Linings Playbook where Bradley Cooper throws the Hemingway book out the window because he wasn't satisfied with the ending.
"The world's hard enough as it is guys. It's fucking hard enough as it is." — Pat Solitano
My bedridden grandma was an avid reader. When I visited her in the convalescent home I would always bring her two things: a pint of bourbon and a whodunit. I would sit in a chair next to her and we'd both read our books, and I'd leave after she fell asleep. On a Friday when the sun was setting low, I watched granny take a nip, then turn a page. Nip, then turn. It was a soothing visual for me, seeing her under the blanket with those rosy cheeks. At the time, I was reading The Collected Poems by Sylvia Plath, which inspired me to be patient. I was immersed in the poem "Channel Crossing" which read:
"On storm-struck deck, wind sirens caterwaul. With each tilt, shock and shudder, our blunt ship cleaves forward into fury. Dark as anger, waves wallop, assaulting the stubborn hull. Flayed by spray, we take the challenge up, grip the rail, squint ahead, and wonder how much longer such force can last."
When I finished the verse I noticed a peaceful silence. I lifted my eyes and looked at Grandma's gentle face as the mystery slithered out of her hand, bounced off the comforter, and thudded against the dusty wooden floorboard. Her bookmark, freed from the deckled pages, fluttered beneath the hissing radiator, disappearing from view.
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