A sublime, medicinal, addictive aspect of doing almost nothing but reading for several days is how far away from, and into, oneself one travels; but this awareness pales before the sudden, seemingly accidental realization that, in the process, what formerly was taken for “real life” is now preposterous and even untenable, and must be appreciated and understood as fiction if it is to be plausible and liveable at all.
Yes, I have been reading. And to a very large degree, reading for me is much as it was when I was a boy growing up in California’s San Joaquin Valley: a refuge wide as an old shade tree, a sparkling glass of ice-cold lemonade, a log on the fire when vineyards and orchards are ice-bound and shrouded in fog, each savored and held simultaneously in the mind, all to a whisper offered by the sweet, sensuous lips of an imagined, more-real-than-real Beloved.
The very same, of course, can be said for writing.
My computer is running again, new hard drive and all. On the technical front, it has been an expensive, trying week, and it will be a while yet before my system is in full and comfortable working order. And the same goes for my computer.