My car is still in the shop, and the fact has left me without momentum, and my puppy has left me without lint rollers. To remedy the immense lack of boredom, I've been digging into what's considered "chick lit", though I'm going to steer away from harlequin romances.
If I wanted lust-ridden adventures, I'd read Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller, which is one of my favorite books by far.

Plus, I want to keep track of what I've been reading. So I'm posting this more of myself.

Just finished reading:

Skylight Confessions by Alice Hoffman which, to my surprise, was stunning, supernatural, sexual, and so tragic. It reminded me a little of Goldengrove by Francine Prose, but was just really dreamy. Although most people like to dismiss these types of books as irrelevant, and simply nothing more than brain candy, I think the most important quality in literature is not to first educate, or just intellectualize, but to move. It's just arrogant when critics demeans the quality of a body of work because it's not cerebral.



The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger

I saw the movie over the summer because I adore Rachel McAdams and Eric Bana with my roomate and her siblings, and even my cold dead heart appreciated the romantic fantasy. The book itself was intriguing and original, and I always stayed away from it beforehand because all my female postmenopausal English teachers adored it (they also revered Jodi Picoult, eh), but this book was rich, and vivid.

Now reading:

Her Fearful Symmetry also by Audrey Niffengger

Nicholas met Hugo in Africa.
Nicholas phases,
like pristine elephantine hills
into books,
algorithms,
a sowl.

hugo tells me he is hungry,
foolish & heavy-hearted

he has been a fool.

Reigning In The Rain

Hugo fishes-
in a boat filled to the brim with salt.

there is a line,
far quieter than the equator
that segue into numbers, dust, geometry.

there is no preposition,
to measure the gift, the line, the vine

Hugo fishes-
and sometimes,
ankles deep in salt
he sees a man with no mouth,
no ears, no eyes, no nose,
and no hook

The Road

he is steady
eyebrows stitched in knots,
the lightning, the buzz, the barley.

the rust on pier 17,
iron gates leading,
Cormac McCarthy speaks from paperback print
bouncing in a satchel.

Misinterpretations

saying his name,
is memorizing cursive, suffixes peeking through
it leers, smelling like summer caught in mauve hues,
yesterday, the draft drew him in
from mistaking the fog with the stream

at night,
the sailors, on the opposite shore
cannot drink all that he has swallowed,
just roam.

Visa

there are twenty seven ways out of this mess,
only twelve of which that matter,
the other option is to sit idly,
and wait.