Feeds:Tuesday, fifteenth week after Pentecost
So all summer, Brian and I have been reeducating each other, naming albums to hear and books to read. Brian's recomendated reading: I, Lucifer; Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs; Satanic Verses. My own selections: Hart's Hope; Foucault's Pendulum; Lucifer's Hammer; Oedipus the King and Antigone; Moby Dick. Sense a theme? Brian's not ready to relinquish Verses yet, and I'm still in the thick of Moby Dick and Antigone. I get involved in what I read. I nearly wept for Oedipus, and I was both affirmed and offended by Klosterman. Most of Pendulum I had to read in small chunks.
Add to this movies and music. Reality Bites, on Klostermann's recommendation. We had to pause that one, go out to the porch for cigarettes. Boys and Girls in America, alternately as flagellation and intoxicant. Señor Smoke, as warning and oracle. No, as a mirror, dimly. Before the move, Amy Ray, Aimee Man, Amy Winehouse. The Gothic Archies, also from Brian. Snow Machine, which would have made me want to weep regardless.
Tonight, I made the mistake of acquiring the rest of the The Hold Steady discography. It's too much, too dense, and I can't stop. Months ago, I read The Crying of Lot 49. Maybe you understand. I don't even know when I started anymore.
Lately, I've had a lot of people ask me about turning into a dragon. Lately, I've been reminded over and again that this might all be a dream. (Lately, I've been having lots of recurrent dreams... again.) I've had conversations about living life all over. Even the Wii asked me about erasing my past. Just now, I think, if I woke up on the floor in seventh grade, I wouldn't remember anything I've learned. Dreams always escape, leaving me hungry. I never remember the important parts, the keystones, the turning points.
I never remember anything.
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