READING

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I've been reading.

That’s good. Very good. I enjoy it.

The trouble with reading becomes apparent after a short while, and it is twofold. While I’m reading, I’m happily sharing someone else’s head. I’m seeing with their eyes and hearing their words and thoughts. All good.

I should be writing.

I have flashes full of notes and a favourites bar so complex I need to delete it and start again – or have a smart person invent some sort of memory activated filing system, so when I think of a site I once visited, my special bot thing will search through my favourites and find it for me.

But there is so much good reading. Half a day on Project Gutenberg, half a day on poetry I only just found because Dan Holloway suggested I check out Philistine Press, and then I found their links, and now I’m saturated. Poetry overloaded. Half a day on a webserial I tripped over; the other few half days on stuff I am supposed to read because I have to. And that was only today.

I used to write poetry when I thought angst was poetry, and I loved those poems. Well, I still call them poems but I realize now no one else would.

That’s the other problem.

When I read some things, I get a big cold lump of rock that sets in my gut and I just shake my head and for a little while I have absolutely nothing I want to say. I have no words fit to say. The ones I do know clump together in an ugly little pile.

I should be writing.

But I’ll talk to the universe instead, because that is only words; only conversations; only chat. Not art.
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