Engulfed

"Me too," her husband said. "It's cold as shit in here."

Shit is the tofu of cursing and can be molded to whichever condition the speaker desires. Hot as shit. Windy as shit. I myself was confounded as shit...

-- David Sedaris, in "Town and Country," When You Are Engulfed in Flames

--

Flames will be my first Sedaris book. It's the light to balance out the heavy (see "Currently Reading" list on right). I suppose when you're reading Dostoevski and theology, it's okay to dip into lighter material for a weekend. Which is exactly what I did: After two days of reading Flames, I'm almost finished. Usually it takes me almost a month to read a 300+ page book, but generally the material is denser, more "literary" than a collection of personal essays about middle life.

It maybe takes me so long to read books because I plow through several at once. This keeps me from getting bored with just one, and thus decreases the probability that I will decide it's not worth finishing right now, which is what I've done several times with Brothers K. It's not that I decide the book isn't worth reading, just that it's not a good fit for my life right now. I'm too busy. I'm too young.

I admire people who can focus on a single book at a time. For the weeks they are making it through a tome, your mental image of them always has them holding, carrying, or reading that book. You begin to associate that person with that particular book. When you start reading it yourself, you occasionally wonder if you're seeing the same things the other person saw, if later you can talk with them about that moment in chapter five or the description in chapter nine.

And while I admire them, I wonder too: Are they reading one book at a time because that's all they can handle, or by choice?

And the question flips on itself: If I spent all my reading time on one book at a time, could I get more out of each?

--

Maybe.

I remember moments in college when I would hear the same things in disparate courses (say, English and political economy). It made me wonder if the professors sat in the faculty lounge, sipping tea, discussing what topics they would all try to cover that day.

"I move we mention Virgil's description of the sacking of Troy."

"Seconded."

"Yes, but what specifically?"

"How about we mention the image of a man carrying his father on his back and being led by his son? That it was a metaphor for the nature of history itself?"

"Splendid!"

"All in favor--?"

"Aye!"

Or something like that. I only bring it up because a similar thing happens when you read more than one book at a time. Just recently, reading Mere Christianity and The Orthodox Church simultaneously made for many sync-ups.

It's not quite like seeing two sides of the same coin. It's more like reaching into two pants pockets and finding two-dollar bills in each.

--

Multi-reading (a cheap combo of multi-tasking and reading) also allows me to link moods or events in my life with a number of books. After church on a beautiful afternoon like yesterday's, I'm more likely to walk to the river and read something theological and transporting--The Orthodox Church. While watching the Cardinals lose to the Brewers, I might spend commercials breezing through Flames. And when it's time for bed, I'll pretentiously grab a candle and read Brothers Karamazov by flame light.

Another thought occurs to me: this is how I read in college. Different chunks from different works, at random times throughout a day, every day. This is how I trained my mind to read.

--

To an extent, I think it's how I write, too. (At least, how I write in a blog.) Random clippings, strewn about without much editing or post-thought. Generally, I'll have an idea before I start typing, but from there, it sort of meanders. Even when I try to keep it focused on a single topic, relatively meaningless details from life creep in, assuming deeper meaning when there's not much there, like kids stealing focus on stage. It's the damming of the stream of consciousness, creating a reservoir of silly, small memories.

--

Once, in a summer stock vocal rehearsal, the music director's brother (our lead in the show) said he could turn any ordinary object into a voice lesson. Someone took out a plastic spoon and handed it to him. He studied the spoon for no more than a second, then held it out at arm's length, the concave facing away. "Aim your voice like it's a taught fishing line," he said. "Try to hook it onto the edge of the spoon, and with your hand pull your voice from your body. Imagine the line getting tenser and tenser as breath leaves your lungs. This is the proper way to sing."

We clapped and he shrugged. "Anything can be turned into a lesson."

I'm paraphrasing, obviously, but that idea has stuck with me. You can turn anything into a metaphor just by thinking about it as one. As one beloved professor pointed out often, you can verb anything in English--even the noun "verb."

--

I'm showing my apartment today. Some guys from next door are thinking about shifting everything over thirty feet. I think they also live on the third floor of their building.

So yesterday was not a day of rest. Lots of cleaning, folding of laundry, discovery of junk mail. Threw away a dead potted plant that was a gift from the last show (I'm bad with plants). Scrubbed the stove top. I'm going back soon to vacuum, sweep, dust, and make that crowded closet resemble "presentable."

Also: Visiting my sisters in Seattle. Just bought the ticket a few days ago.

And: Kix doesn't taste the way it used to. When you snack on them and they drop, they roll like crazy.