Mondays on the Margins: Remember When I Used to Write Coherently About Books?
I have high hopes that I will again someday.
Today is not that day.
I wanted to write about a book of short stories that I took out of the library. I looked at the book notes that I keep as Word files, hoping that I had made notes on it, although I had no memory of making notes on it - I do many things that I have no memory of doing these days.
I didn't make notes on it. I also didn't order a copy of it when I ordered books the other day, using the gift cards Angus gave me because he had a bunch piled up in his room and was never going to use them (talk about a gift that makes you simultaneously exultant and despairing). I would have put it on my list of books to buy; in fact, I might have. But I can't find the list.
I feel a little like I'm walking on a disappearing path.
Today while we were sitting waiting for our estimate at the collision centre, I told Matt that I was throwing in a load of laundry in last night, intending to go to bed right afterwards, then I went and told Angus that he should go to bed and read for a bit, and he looked at me like I was crazy and said "remember, a couple hours ago, we said we're watching The Walking Dead at nine?" I said to my husband "there's something wrong with me." "No there isn't," he said "I live my whole life the same way." I said "THEN THERE'S SOMETHING WRONG WITH YOU TOO!"
So I looked over some of my book notes, which is always diverting. It's funny how there are some fonts that make me feel like the person that typed those notes was very young. I can't decide why, or if I should change the font.
I use the word "haunting" a lot.
Is it possible that I was ever organized enough and had enough time to take notes on every single story in short story collections?
Then again, I'm not sure how I convinced myself that "refugees, thieves, phonograph, crying" or "man from Vietnam owns one of John Lennon's shoes" was going to adequately recall a story for me. At least it reminds me of whether I'd like to revisit a story, I guess. Or maybe I could use them as bizarre poetry:
Man charged with taking a group of madmen
across the city to asylum
Stops at cafe with friends
loses the madmen
Picks up twelve of "the most insane looking peasants" waiting for construction work
drops them off at the hospital
No one seems to notice the difference.
Tea.
Today is not that day.
I wanted to write about a book of short stories that I took out of the library. I looked at the book notes that I keep as Word files, hoping that I had made notes on it, although I had no memory of making notes on it - I do many things that I have no memory of doing these days.
I didn't make notes on it. I also didn't order a copy of it when I ordered books the other day, using the gift cards Angus gave me because he had a bunch piled up in his room and was never going to use them (talk about a gift that makes you simultaneously exultant and despairing). I would have put it on my list of books to buy; in fact, I might have. But I can't find the list.
I feel a little like I'm walking on a disappearing path.
Today while we were sitting waiting for our estimate at the collision centre, I told Matt that I was throwing in a load of laundry in last night, intending to go to bed right afterwards, then I went and told Angus that he should go to bed and read for a bit, and he looked at me like I was crazy and said "remember, a couple hours ago, we said we're watching The Walking Dead at nine?" I said to my husband "there's something wrong with me." "No there isn't," he said "I live my whole life the same way." I said "THEN THERE'S SOMETHING WRONG WITH YOU TOO!"
So I looked over some of my book notes, which is always diverting. It's funny how there are some fonts that make me feel like the person that typed those notes was very young. I can't decide why, or if I should change the font.
I use the word "haunting" a lot.
Is it possible that I was ever organized enough and had enough time to take notes on every single story in short story collections?
Then again, I'm not sure how I convinced myself that "refugees, thieves, phonograph, crying" or "man from Vietnam owns one of John Lennon's shoes" was going to adequately recall a story for me. At least it reminds me of whether I'd like to revisit a story, I guess. Or maybe I could use them as bizarre poetry:
Man charged with taking a group of madmen
across the city to asylum
Stops at cafe with friends
loses the madmen
Picks up twelve of "the most insane looking peasants" waiting for construction work
drops them off at the hospital
No one seems to notice the difference.
Tea.
Comments
Where did my other sock go?
Sappho?
No, sock go.