I haven't been reading much lately. In part, I don't mind so much. I've got lots of other things to do. In another part,
I kind of want to drift away to some fantasy land, rapt in somebody else's life.
I went out and bought Mary Doria
Russel's Children of God,
the sequel to The Sparrow, which
I read and liked. But The Sparrow, the story of a Jesuit priest with a mission to make first contact with aliens (and,
in a sense, God and himself) was way depressing in a lot of ways, and that's just not what I need right now. Strangely,
both these books are linked
to To Say Nothing of the Dog by
Connie Willis, a book I loved lots, but mostly because it was light and cute and funny and had time travel in it, none
of which applies to Mary Doria Russel's stuff (Connie
Willis' Doomsday Book, while
still having some muted humour and time travel, has a heavy, tragedy-laden story which is what bridged me over to The
Sparrow).
I also
bought A Game of Thrones
based on recommendations from friends. This was despite the fact that it's a hexalogy (?) of really thick books.
Unfortunately, the prologue revealed a legion of sinister, undead creatures. I hate undead things. I tossed that one
back on the shelf.
I'll take reading suggestions, but don't be offended if I turn them down. I'm kind of picky, and since I'm an awfully
slow reader, this is a bit of a time investment for me. I think I'd like to dive into some fluffy and fun mystery novel.
Maybe I'll stop by the library on the way home.
There's this truck that sits idle outside my window every morning. Sometime in the evening too. It drives me crazy.
There isn't anything in the world that grates in my nerves more than a diesel truck idling. Well, nothing that I can
think of at the moment.
For some reason, on this page, I feel compelled to turn this into some sort of metaphor for Life. I can't think of
anything. It just bugs me, is all.
I'll be honest, I've been feeling pretty crappy lately. There's this cold to start with. My grandfather died two weeks
ago. I'm still not sure how I'm dealing with that one. We weren't very close, although I made an effort, these last
couple years, to spend more time with him when I was home on the occasional weekend or holiday.
I didn't know him very well, I suppose. One thing that surprised me was when I was told that I'm exactly like he was
when he was young. I'd never noticed, except that we're equally talkative... Which is to say we aren't.
I know I'll miss him. He was always such a nice guy. It's a shame I didn't know him better.
I had a thought, yesterday, to track down one of my old co-workers. The reason was that he was in the "unknown" section
of a "where are they now" list that was circulating the office. He had seemed to me to be a nice guy, and I was
wondering where he was at right now. Doing so made me rethink something I'd written recently on another site.
The Internet, in many ways, is a wonderful thing. Google especially. I wasn't having a whole
lot of luck, though, so I tried a different tack. I came across his wife's online diary.
A little nagging voice quietly whispered "don't go there." I never listen to that anyway. I read her most recent entry,
written the day before, saying that she might reconsider getting a divorce after all. And that nagging voice got a
little louder.
I read some more. I was compelled—drawn in. For one thing, she seemed funny, sincere, poetic, thoughtful, likes the
Powerpuff Girls, liable to sell herself short, frustrated, resentful of her own timidity and other shortcomings... I
found myself relating. Even if she likes Buttercup and I'm more of a Bubbles person. So if, as I said, her husband
seemed to be a nice guy, what was up? I was driven to ask out of fear, I suppose. I can't imagine anything worse than
being stuck in a life without love, but knowing I couldn't do anything to change it without hurting someone I care (or
cared) deeply about, even if doing nothing meant I and everyone else were hurt repeatedly, slowly and methodically until
something really bad happened. I think most of my fear of connecting with others stems from my fear that this might
happen. A life without love on my own seems the lesser of evils.
So I read the entry about their going into therapy. And I read some more. And then I read about how she was raped as a
teenager. Several times.
I felt numb. I had to leave the office, because I was afraid someone might see me crying.
I had already invested too much into it, I suppose. I had been thinking that this might be an interesting thing to write
about here, and when I found myself thinking that she and I weren't all that dissimilar, I was lost—totally unprepared
for what I'd find. After all, I don't know her. I didn't really know her husband either. He was just someone I saw at
work every day for a year or so.
Now in some ways, I feel awful. Not just for the guilt of invading someone's privacy, no matter how public she made it.
I also feel guilt that I'm using her pain to fill up this web page. I'm writing this anyway. I don't know why. It's too
much to keep to myself. That's probably why she wrote about it herself. When I compare it to anything I'd be able to
write here, I feel empty. It's not that I wish I had that kind of pain to express.... It's just... I don't know...
complicated.
I was going to come to a point right about now. I can't do it anymore. I've debated whether I should post a link, but I
don't think I can. Being a pimp is somehow much worse than just being a voyeur.