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09 March 2005 @ 07:41 pm
Mr. Rochester's going to want to put me in the attic after this entry.  
I am an alligator goddess in alligator clothes. I have an alligator handbag and alligator hands. I have an alligator's snap and lethargy. I am, in short, Cruella Deville.

If I don't scare you, no evil thing will.

I am sitting still for the first time since around 1:30, and it's kind of freaking me out. My books are sitting smugly on my desk, rectangular and thick. I'll make a confession: I hate pristine books. This is perhaps going to get my 'avid reader' card revoked, but I really do hate them. It makes me feel like they haven't been loved, or are so dry that there's no reason to even try to love them. Encyclopedias are, for instance, usually pristine. Favorite books have underlines and words written in the margins and dog eared pages, and stains on the cover from coffee cups put down on them becauses you simply couldn't bear to part with them. Favorite books are like favorite shoes: they're scuffed. They've been used, and they reflect it.

I may never have woken today, not fully. I could lie back down right now and slip into immediate and vivid sleep, as though I'd never stopped. Alas, I must sally forth. I must go once more into the breach of books, dear friends, with their crisp pages and blank margins, these sad unloved books with all of their lovely, lovable words...sometimes doing my class reading makes me want to set people up with these books. To say, "You know, you and Simplicity would get along great," but naturally that's nuts so I don't.

It's strange how though I'm sitting still my mind is still racing, as though I were running up a hill, and over a brook and through the woods to my grandmother's house I'd go! So that was perhaps a little on the crazy side, that sentence right there, but judge not. The writing block is wearing on my brain, to the extent that my poor brain is kind of shivering into overdrive, and shimmying around inside my head, and oh, how frustrating it can be at times. And yet, I don't think I'd give up it up, because being blocked comes with writing a lot in general, and if it was a trade off between writing less and being able to consistently write whenever, and writing as much as I do now and having periods where my brain needs to recharge, I'd keep what I've got.

Yes. This is the time of our lives, after all. Or so sayeth the song on my neighbor's radio, which is playing so loudly I can feel it.
 
 
Current Mood: crazycrazy
Current Music: For You-Barenaked Ladies
 
 
 
Kay Deluca: clarkuntappedbeauty on March 10th, 2005 12:55 am (UTC)
Favorite books are like favorite shoes: they're scuffed. They've been used, and they reflect it.

See, I'm the opposite. I like my books clean and crisp and unmarked. The books I really love are the ones I won't bend the spines on or allow to get scuffed. They're immaculate, and that's the way I like them. It somehow feels like I'm sullying them to write or highlight or otherwise leave my mark on them. You'd think something like that would be a result of the way I was brought up or something, but my mother is more like you with her books. I guess it's just my personal compulsion.
Janet F. Caires-Lesgold: huh?jfc013 on March 10th, 2005 02:56 am (UTC)
I got in big trouble once for drawing a picture in my copy of "The Wind in the Willows" when I was five. I've never written in a book since.

You? Stay away from my library. ;P
Meret: girlreadingmeret on March 10th, 2005 03:59 am (UTC)
I'll make a confession: I hate pristine books.

Have you ever seen 84 Charing Cross Road? http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0090570/
If not, you should definitely rent it. You sound just like one of the main characters. It's a great movie, especially if you love books. :)