“Water water everywhere and not a drop to drink” – Coleridge
Such has been my life lately with regards to literature. I’m surrounded by all these amazing books, novels, essay anthologies, and biographies I’ve purchased and there they’ve sat on my bookshelf, piled on my floor, on my bedside table. Waiting to be consumed. Thankfully good stories don’t have an expiry date, and REALLY good stories only get better upon repetitive consummation.
But now, finally, the fog seems to be lifting. The literary waters seem potable. I’m finally able to “get” into a novel. And with this, a sense that what has been a tough year is finally resolving itself and “things”, whatever they may be, are going to start afresh. It’s funny how one incident, a matter of seconds really, can affect a person for months and months and months….
In November I was in a car accident and it has felt as though life has been unraveling ever since. Until this weekend. I think it’s quite timely that this was also Easter weekend. A time of rebirth and renewal.
Anyway, this weekend I ran away from home for thirty – one hours. My sister and I boarded a plane at the wee hours of the morning, flew to another city and shopped and drank martini’s and shopped and drank wine and ate good food and shopped. It was time set aside for decadence, and splurging and really good sisterly conversation. And, on my return flight home, I settled into my book. Purely escapist fare about murder and conspiracy and angels.
And I read.
Then I read again some more last night.
Then I read again this morning and more this afternoon.
And the book calls to me instead of taunts.
Now for some this may seem like no big deal, but for a über book geek like me NOT being able to really READ all these months has at times been anywhere between mildly frustrating to downright torturous. It wouldn’t be at all melodramatic for me to say that I had been living like a musician living in a world devoid of music,
and during that entire time I was simply sad.
I think the action of getting away, transplanting myself somewhere new, even if it was for less than forty-eight hours, and being with my sister who required nothing from me except that I be myself, had something to do with this change.
Now excuse me as I return to New York and the convent of St. Rose where Sister Evangeline is receiving vital historical information regarding the discoveries in the “Rhodopes” regarding the “Nephilim”.
I’m reading is “Angelology” by Danielle Turssoni.