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"The dark sacred night..."
Sep. 1st, 2005 11:56 amI have had Louis Armstrong's "What A Wonderful World" stuck in my head since yesterday. Something about the rainstorms that signalled the end of Hurricane Katrina and plunged the city into darkness made me think it was oddly appropriate. That, and it was quoted in a book I'm reading.
I'm detecting a new desire for escapism in myself. Well, not new, but perhaps renewed. I've been escaping into books (sometimes it's movies, sometimes it's roleplay, but most of the time it's books). I've been reading a bit of science fiction, but mostly murder mysteries. I've always had a taste for those, and I've discovered a really good author, Michael Connelly. I bought the first book maybe a year or two ago on a whim, because the title appealed to me. The Concrete Blonde has nothing to do with the band, but I was intrigued, and the book hooked me right away. Then I forgot to look for more books by the author after. It occurred to me about three weeks ago that I should look for them while I was at Chapters, and now I'm the proud owner of six or seven of his books. I still have one and half more to read.
The same thing happened with Charles Todd, whom I disovered thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
curtana. She sent me a book for my birthday last year (actually, twice in a row), which I absolutely loved. It combined a mystery along with the First World War (well, the years right after), which is one of my favourite historical periods, so naturally it was a success with me. I wasn't able to afford too many more books since I kind of went overboard with Michael Connelly, and anyway Chapters is being stupid about not stocking the books I want, so I have four books of his, with one left to read. I am very excited about this.
Of course, non-stop reading and the occasional Bluebook post, combined with much icon-making, is probably a red flag in my case. It reeks of escapism, but I'm not sure why. I'm not particularly depressed, unlike most of this past summer (and my apologies to my friends for not being very good company most of the time), so I don't know why I'm retreating into myself this way. I read at work (on my breaks!) to escape the tedium of my job, but the rest of the time? I don't know.
I refuse to worry about it overmuch. If two years of therapy has taught me anything, it's that too much introspection makes me go crazy. I overanalyze everything, and then that paralyzes me into inaction. As my marvellous psychiatrist told me: "Don't pathologize every single mood you have. Sometimes you just feel like shit, and that's the end of the story." Well, that's paraphrasing somewhat, but you know what I mean. ;) He's very good for me: he keeps me from blowing things all out of proportion, for the most part.
I'm looking forward to going to Alexandria this weekend. After that, though, I'll have to come back to reality and get some cleaning done, and maybe some cooking as well. I really wish that, like a lot of other people I know, I would clean as a way of dealing with stress. I don't, though. I read instead.
I'm detecting a new desire for escapism in myself. Well, not new, but perhaps renewed. I've been escaping into books (sometimes it's movies, sometimes it's roleplay, but most of the time it's books). I've been reading a bit of science fiction, but mostly murder mysteries. I've always had a taste for those, and I've discovered a really good author, Michael Connelly. I bought the first book maybe a year or two ago on a whim, because the title appealed to me. The Concrete Blonde has nothing to do with the band, but I was intrigued, and the book hooked me right away. Then I forgot to look for more books by the author after. It occurred to me about three weeks ago that I should look for them while I was at Chapters, and now I'm the proud owner of six or seven of his books. I still have one and half more to read.
The same thing happened with Charles Todd, whom I disovered thanks to
curtana. She sent me a book for my birthday last year (actually, twice in a row), which I absolutely loved. It combined a mystery along with the First World War (well, the years right after), which is one of my favourite historical periods, so naturally it was a success with me. I wasn't able to afford too many more books since I kind of went overboard with Michael Connelly, and anyway Chapters is being stupid about not stocking the books I want, so I have four books of his, with one left to read. I am very excited about this.Of course, non-stop reading and the occasional Bluebook post, combined with much icon-making, is probably a red flag in my case. It reeks of escapism, but I'm not sure why. I'm not particularly depressed, unlike most of this past summer (and my apologies to my friends for not being very good company most of the time), so I don't know why I'm retreating into myself this way. I read at work (on my breaks!) to escape the tedium of my job, but the rest of the time? I don't know.
I refuse to worry about it overmuch. If two years of therapy has taught me anything, it's that too much introspection makes me go crazy. I overanalyze everything, and then that paralyzes me into inaction. As my marvellous psychiatrist told me: "Don't pathologize every single mood you have. Sometimes you just feel like shit, and that's the end of the story." Well, that's paraphrasing somewhat, but you know what I mean. ;) He's very good for me: he keeps me from blowing things all out of proportion, for the most part.
I'm looking forward to going to Alexandria this weekend. After that, though, I'll have to come back to reality and get some cleaning done, and maybe some cooking as well. I really wish that, like a lot of other people I know, I would clean as a way of dealing with stress. I don't, though. I read instead.
