My brain is scattershot. Like the books that surround me in my apartment–small, askew stacks that find themselves to the right of my couch, on my kitchen table, in my bathroom, in my bed, on my nightstand–I have thoughts that lead to thoughts that lead to discovery. I pick up a book and I read 30 pages and my interest is piqued on a subject, so my thumb opens another cover and more information and I stop briefly to pray at the altar of Highway 61 Revisited–dancing before a Bose speaker in boxer briefs–and return to another new and fascinating world. My book buying habit has become all consuming and I love it: to have my own library, an island of literary delights, Xanadu.
Oh, Saturday afternoons! It’s like they are realizations of Walt Whitman’s America. Loafing and inviting my soul, I lean back into this whole world of non action and find myself traveling the most.