Hello. Uhm, yes. The blogger is alive, but is metaphorically dying since I have not done any serious reading lately, hence, the absence of posts. Okay, that sentence very much like sounds a run-on and signals the lack of writing practice, ahem, which, ironically, is what composes my everyday work life. As much as I would like to say that I had this reading or writing euphoria during the past couple of weeks that would explain the brilliant lack of posts, I was rather engulfed by that cancer called Laziness and Bookwhoring.
If only you would stop throwing me that accusatory glance and look at the bright side of this problem: Look! I am posting a blog blog! I am talking to you about reading! Or not reading?
Anyway, I have been whoring around the books I have at home. For weeks, I have been trying to find that one book that will finally have me tied down, craving, begging for more lashes at my humanoid-ity and my dorkery, but so far, I have slept with around five of them, but there was no such luck in finding that elusive The One [or more aptly, Book Flavor of the Month.]
I have started on A Plea for Eros, Siri Hustvedt. It is a beautiful, beautiful book, but my heart (made of steel) was not in essays. I usually read fiction, but I do have collections of essays at home, which, in every once and a while, I hold and stare and put my palms on their pages, trying to grasp what is within them. But for an ADHD reader like me, it usually takes a while to get my full attention on stuff that are sometimes too serious for me.
Then for the nth time, I tried reading Gary Shteynghart’s Super Sad True Love Story that is heartbreaking and funny at the same time, but is, hmm, taking some time to sit in my brainz. I am a fan of sad novels, and as much as I know that the title suggests a satire romance, I know that had I willed the power to finish this novel, it could in for one heart break, but then again, it was some time during the first 70 pages that I felt myself craving for something that is closer to my heart and my senses, thus, I went to read a realist fiction.
Skippy Dies has been sitting in my Favoritez Bookshelf for months now. I have tried reading it for three times, I think, but I always, always find something much more interesting or much more in tune with my current emotions that made me veer away from that school of obnoxious boys, thus, making my efforts to not get too attached with Skippy [since he dies and it is wrong to be invested in a character who will die. Sniff, sniff. Alaska.] becoming overworked.
Right now, I bring After Dark with me to work. It is small and light, and it fits my bag anytime, which makes it an easy companion. I have no trouble with Murakami’s short sentences of vivid descriptions. I am liking the plot, but I fear that I have not invested myself in the story, yet. This explains the relatively long time I am spending in trying to finish reading the novel despite the few pages and large font.
Then, of course, there is A Lover’s Discourse, but this is a different matter all together, as I have long resolved that I will devour each page of this gorgeous book little by little, over the months, so as my drug will last long. Reading this book has become too personal, that it takes certain emotional preparedness before I enter that mad world of Lurve. Also, I want to write an long entry on this, but it will take time and maybe a ton episode of sad nightz with Vodka and creying, too.
I will finish Murakami soon. And I still have not written blogs on Rick Riordan’s Son of Neptune and Mark Haddon’s A Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time, which were both awesumz you should read it.
Hopefully, I will find that elusive story that will captivate my bleeding heart, piercing this tiny nook of the intarwebs that is my blog. I will be back soon. I promise.
Meanwhile, here’s my first [and last?] tattoo I had in honor of one of my favorite books of all time. The photo was taken a few minutes I had it inked under my left collar bone, so pardon the gruesome redness.
For she had embodied the Great Perhaps—she had proved to me that it was worth it to leave my minor life for grander maybes, and now she was gone and with her my faith in perhaps. (Looking for Alaska, John Green)