Sunday, April 02, 2006
The Reckless Sleeper, Magritte
I have insomnia. It's 2 am.
This happens to me, every once in awhile, mostly if I have things on my mind ( I do, I do, I do).
I think I'm nervous about flying to Indiana. I get nervous about flying. I do it, I don't say much when I'm doing it, but it's always the week beforehand that I get the little freakouts. I'm also planning on heading to Mexico this summer, so there is another long flight I'm not looking forward to. Lots of unmentionables.
I was on a writing jag today, so that didn't help (I'm not complaining about that). I wrote from 2 in the afternoon 'till about 10. It didn't even feel that long, which is good. It's actually the first day I've written proper in a long time. I wanted to reward myself and have a cigarette on a bench break, but I have this horrible cold that keeps coming back every two weeks (Go away!). Thus, no cigarette, just Chinese takeout, which is, and always will be, key to my heart.
Before the post, I reread a passage from Lolita. I did this because I didn't want to read something that was going to make me think too hard. Nabokov's sentences are seamless, they flow and bounce like bubbles! (If you haven't read Lolita, stop here)
I reread the part where Humbert Humbert visits the grown, pregnant, Lolita. It's this way ridiculous sequence of emotions that happens in about 5 pages. It's so endearing, it's creepy. He loves her, He loves her, He loves her. And then you realize, and he does too, that he screwed up her life (this is the succinct editorial of what happens).
And when he drives off, "the dog started to lope alongside my car like a fat dolphin."
Nabokov is my maestro...