are out there.
28 Oct 2002 / 1:14 a.m.
I have a overwhelming urge to read more books than I can possibly process at one time. I'm slogging through Nietzsche's Thus Spoke Zarathustra (which apparently everyone else read in high school, like Catcher in the Rye, which I only recently finished), and Jaques Barzun's From Dawn to Decadence. I've got this nagging urge to hunt down a copy of Dante's Purgatorio (given my current life circumstances it seems fitting)and I've also been wanting to read Brautigan's Loading Mercury with a Pitchfork - that's not going to happen, though, seeing as how it's out of print. I could've found it at Powell's in Portland, no doubt. Mmm, hindsight. All of this would be too much for me to handle, though. My brain's gone soft. When I was a Lit major in school, I had no problem digesting John Donne, some Chaucer, and Flaubert - after being up all night, no doubt stoned out of my gourd. Can't do that anymore. I'm convinced I can't anyway. I think I just have some deep-seated need to torture my mind with endless thinking. It's really dualistic of me, and when I realize I'm doing it I get pissed - which reinforces the ego, blah blah blah.
It was cold and wet today, and the dog and I walked a pretty good distance. Normally we don't go more than a couple of miles, but today my mother came with us. She's nuts. We went twice our usual distance at twice the pace. I ask her why she is always hurrying around. She answers: "hurry? what?" I think she is just fast. I don't really get fast, but that's okay. Whatever works for her.
I talked to Kristin for a few hours on Saturday night, which stirred up all sorts of things that had settled over the last few months like so much miso soup. It's okay, things ended abruptly and were pretty confused. Maybe we can sort things out between us.
I am not feeling terribly buddhist these days. How contradictory of my head to think that.
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