proteanme

I have had my stereo on at home playing music, almost non-stop, for at least the last month. It’s been a massive “feeling” infusion. Typing that made me flash on that scene in Pulp Fiction where John Travolta shoots that big ass needle right into Uma Thruman’s chest. Except stretch that out to an injection that takes 6 weeks to administer. Lord, knows I needed something massive. I can get amazingly cut off from myself. That’s not the right way to describe it. I can tamp all my feelings down like packed earth . . . that might be more accurate. Or hibernate, except only the “feeling” part of me is in the cave and the part of me not in the cave really longs to get the part that’s deeply in there out of there.

All this public naval gazing, is it good? Is it helpful? I have some anxiety that I will turn into a narcissist but I won’t know it. God, that would suck.

Also, I am going to start going through stuff I have and giving things away and I hope if I approach you with something that you will consider taking it, because that would give me some joy.

Naval gazing break here via links to things that are well worth reading if you haven’t already:

• Amy Hempel’s In The Cemetery Where Al Jolson is Buried
• Cheryl Strayed’s The Love of My Life
• David Foster Wallace’s commencement speech
• An excerpt from Wendell Berry’s Faustian Economics
• Tony Judt’s Night
• bell hooks All About Love (preview)