I've been reading a lot of books lately--more than I have in a while. I don't know if I'm just trying to fill a void place inside of me with "something to do" or if I really have an interest in the things I'm reading. I suppose it's somewhere in between. Today's post will likely reflect a bit of Gibson's
Pattern Recognition--the way its disjoints don't really seem to matter so much with all the details that are too many to grasp entirely. That said, I'm pretty sure that what we read shapes our understanding of life; it puts into perspective pieces of a puzzle that, even though it's called fiction, hold these tidbits of reality for us to glimpse--however small or fleeting.
For me, the process seems more like book devouring than reading--trying to inhale culture, though I couldn't say to what end. Am I looking for something? Or are the words just a salve for a creative wound that I can't seem to find a way to heal? Whatever the case, the books have made things bearable lately--a place where my imagination can hide while my reality swirls along around me in colors that I'm not sure I like--too lazy to pick up the pieces when what I want isn't what I have.
