So as you know, reading is really good for you. Unfortunately, the things with which reading helps you are all things that you need a certain level of in order to do it consistently. I friend sent me a copy of Farewell to an Idea after we had a conversation about the deeply shameful underrating of The Death of Marat, but I’m not in the right state of mind to dig into something like that. On the other hand, if I read some kind of bestseller, it doesn’t hold my attention and the cathexis that reading affords is lost.
After all sorts of fruitless casting about, I came up with a solution so obvious that I’m sort of ashamed that I hadn’t come up with it sooner: Swann’s Way. It’s also a book with which I feel a lot of sympathy these days, which is nice. Of course, reading about sleeping isn’t quite the same as sleeping so there are still some stumbling blocks, but overall it’s a huge improvement in my life.
Had another day where I slept a lot. A certain amount of catch-as-catch-can with regards to this is inevitable with a graveyard shift, but one needs to exert some control over it to get what one needs from the normal world. I don’t really know where to start with that, which makes me nervous about putting it off indefinitely.
I am, by nature and various forms of training, agile in a way that if I bobble things, even in a way that would seem normal to most people, there is clearly some kind of problem. Periodically I wonder if this situation represents a substantial inefficiency. Like, maybe the focus I’m expending under normal circumstances could be used in a way where it’s keeping me from creating a structure that makes the reflexes less necessary.
Basically all I do for fun is bathe. I sort of think I’d get something out of leaving the apartment for leisure, but I am attempting to emerge from a period where I was beating myself up for not having a hobby that was personality-defining, so being casual about stuff like that makes me panic.
Whither leisure, the Joaquin Maguire story.
Well, after the dinner mentioned in the previous post and sleeping more in the last 24 hours or so than I have in months, I can tell you that indolence is 100% the key to happiness.
So I have, speaking broadly, a crippling problem with aimlessness. Last night I was sort of hoping that putting stuff up all the time might help with that, because I’d be narrating what was going on. The problem, of course, is that I can’t start that, because I’m too aimless, and then there’s a bunch of panicking and chicken-egg dysphasia-ing. What I did do today was make some marvelous fusion snacks.
A million years ago on a date that consisted of passing a bottle of wine back and forth in Prospect Park, my interlocutor said of her decision to come out, “Why do I need an excuse to hang out with a boy whose life is an open book in the internet?” Since then, everyone has started pretending that their life is an open book on the internet, but the whole thing has been sort of obfuscated and branded and is kind of horrible. Partly as a reaction to this decline, and partly because I think it is probably the only way that I’ll ever start writing here consistently, this is going to start including a lot of really boring diary stuff. Excelsior!
The weekend before last, I went to the SF MOMA (Museum of Ongoing Mytho-Cosmological Art), mostly to see the not super-creatively named Matisse/Diebenkorn exhibit, which is about more or less what it says on the tin. The selection was good, but the labeling was heavy-handed and pedantic in a way that was really distracting.
There were plenty of places where the pieces made the case for themselves, so you had to wonder why they had to belabor it. There were also places where some broad artistic pattern was described as a connection, which undermines points of genuine confluence. Of course, they don’t want you to take pictures, so I don’t have anything with which to flesh these objections out.