A few thoughts

It's much too late for me to even be awake, given that I've got a full day of work tomorrow followed by rehearsal followed by more work, but I just wanted to get one or two things down before I sleep so I don't forget them by the morning.

First: I purchased a copy of Dave Eggers' new book, A Hologram for the King, at least a week ago and have not yet cracked the cover. I see it every day, because it is sitting on top of the fabric-cabinet which doubles as the table on which my laptop sits. So why, instead of reading this book, whose release I so highly anticipated, am I rereading Pride and Prejudice for the thousandth time? I had a theory the other day, which I shared with my barista who, it is entirely possible, thinks I am a crazy person: I am hesitant to start reading this book because I am afraid of finishing it.

Let me explain: there is something very special about the first time you read a book. There are several first-time reading experiences that stand out to me immediately: A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, Gone with the Wind, The Elegance of the Hedgehog, The Woman in White . . . before you have read a book until its pages are dog-eared, before you know every line of dialogue, every description of a sunset or a bridge, before that book becomes an old friend, every page is an adventure. And, with some very special books, some remnant of that sense of excitement remains, and there are still things to discover long after the pages are yellowed and torn where you have folded them over to mark your place (shamefully, I admit to mistreating my books in this way on occasion). There will, however, never be anything like the experience of reading the first part of Heartbreaking Work for the very first time, where, at seventeen, I learned for the first time what it felt like to laugh and cry simultaneously. After years of resisting delving into what I had pre-judged to be an overly-wordy romance about awful people doing horrible things to each other, I was amazed to discover that Gone with the Wind dealt with a young woman coming to terms with the fact that the world in which she has been brought up to thrive no longer exists, and trying to carve out a new existence despite the resistance of those around her who cling to the old world--particularly relevant today, when a generation which has been brought up to believe that education is the key to success and financial stability finds itself crushed under a mountain of student loan debt, often having to put off the supposed hallmarks of adulthood (marriage, children, home ownership, a steady job) while struggling to pay the bills. But I digress, going off yet again on a topic that could fill its own overly-long blog post.

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Days later


Well. I say "days." It could well be a week, for all my ability to mark time by sense alone. Between work, rehearsal, learning new music, sewing, preparing for auditions, &c., &c., &c., I barely remember what day it is without looking at my Google Calendar, in whose half-hour increments I measure my life.

A centipede just crawled across the wall below the windowsill where I keep my Jane Austen novels and the baseball Jim Leyland signed for me on my 25th birthday. This is not an uncommon occurrence--the centipedes, that is. It is a basement apartment, after all, and I don't mind them as long as they continue to prey on any smaller insects who wander in and stay out of my immediate vicinity.

I haven't got much to say, but I thought that I ought to finally post this, as it's been sitting around for ages. In the meantime, until life calms down (will it ever? we can only hope), I will leave you with a video of the first flashmob ever to make me cry: