Pages

Another one from Miranda Lehman (see link in post below)


The final volume of Proust's Recherche has been sitting on my table for some time now, the bookmark lodged at the 80-page mark. I keep coming back to it, reading for a bit, and putting it down, unable to find myself in the frame of mind that makes Proust delightful.

I used to liken it to being in an underwater cave, surrounded by words, dripping with description and image, and vibrating with the life he brought out of situations. I loved to sit in my chair with the sunlight on me and just savor the sensory experience of reading his passages.

V. Woolf had that effect too, so I re-read Orlando. No luck. So I turned to something a bit different and re-read Calvino's Mr. Palomar, and after the third failed attempt to reach reading bliss I figured out what the problem is--I'm no longer having a conversation with the pages I read.

There used to be a double conversation which would take place: the internal one, reader to written word, and an external one, reader to memory of other written words and other thoughts. The second conversation would lead me to pick up new volumes, return to old volumes, and basically fuel my reading pattern. I would discover new writers and obscure texts and love them. The best thing about it was that the process felt entirely organic--a series of steppingstones. But it's not working anymore and I want to fix that.

I think I have a bit of nomadic blood in me and need to be always moving and experiencing something new. I need the jolt of strange to help keep me engaged and interested. It's not official yet, but I'm planning on relocating to Charleston, SC this summer, to spend a year enjoying a completely different environment, to have fun with a great group of people that are currently living there, and to get myself into a PhD program.

This plan makes me very excited!

Pages

Another one from Miranda Lehman (see link in post below)


The final volume of Proust's Recherche has been sitting on my table for some time now, the bookmark lodged at the 80-page mark. I keep coming back to it, reading for a bit, and putting it down, unable to find myself in the frame of mind that makes Proust delightful.

I used to liken it to being in an underwater cave, surrounded by words, dripping with description and image, and vibrating with the life he brought out of situations. I loved to sit in my chair with the sunlight on me and just savor the sensory experience of reading his passages.

V. Woolf had that effect too, so I re-read Orlando. No luck. So I turned to something a bit different and re-read Calvino's Mr. Palomar, and after the third failed attempt to reach reading bliss I figured out what the problem is--I'm no longer having a conversation with the pages I read.

There used to be a double conversation which would take place: the internal one, reader to written word, and an external one, reader to memory of other written words and other thoughts. The second conversation would lead me to pick up new volumes, return to old volumes, and basically fuel my reading pattern. I would discover new writers and obscure texts and love them. The best thing about it was that the process felt entirely organic--a series of steppingstones. But it's not working anymore and I want to fix that.

I think I have a bit of nomadic blood in me and need to be always moving and experiencing something new. I need the jolt of strange to help keep me engaged and interested. It's not official yet, but I'm planning on relocating to Charleston, SC this summer, to spend a year enjoying a completely different environment, to have fun with a great group of people that are currently living there, and to get myself into a PhD program.

This plan makes me very excited!

Curtains

(All photos are by Miranda Lehman)


The walk home after school was always the best in the early spring. The bees and bugs weren't yet a nuisance, the air was just cool enough, and the trees would be flowering. I've always preferred flowering trees to plain flowers. There's something so glorious about a cherry tree in full bloom, not to mention the lush magnolia blooms, the delicate apple tree blossoms, and the ironic Bradford pear (the beautiful buds which smell of ammonia).

New York is the same way. For months now the walks have been tedious, grey, and dirty, but in one weekend green and white have returned, color has been splashed all over the flowerbeds, and my eyes again have something to gaze upon.

When I come home from work, the sky is just light enough to be the richest shade of lapis. The streets are illumined by fluorescent streetlamps which transform the green and white trees of morning into dusky trees of twilight. The boughs are deep and black and the clusters of petals are mauve-tinted and ephemeral.

I walk extra blocks just to see them for longer.



I won't speak to the long silence here, except to say that in a few months I will hopefully be living in a new state, with a new environment and a renewed desire to observe, think, and write.

Curtains

(All photos are by Miranda Lehman)


The walk home after school was always the best in the early spring. The bees and bugs weren't yet a nuisance, the air was just cool enough, and the trees would be flowering. I've always preferred flowering trees to plain flowers. There's something so glorious about a cherry tree in full bloom, not to mention the lush magnolia blooms, the delicate apple tree blossoms, and the ironic Bradford pear (the beautiful buds which smell of ammonia).

New York is the same way. For months now the walks have been tedious, grey, and dirty, but in one weekend green and white have returned, color has been splashed all over the flowerbeds, and my eyes again have something to gaze upon.

When I come home from work, the sky is just light enough to be the richest shade of lapis. The streets are illumined by fluorescent streetlamps which transform the green and white trees of morning into dusky trees of twilight. The boughs are deep and black and the clusters of petals are mauve-tinted and ephemeral.

I walk extra blocks just to see them for longer.



I won't speak to the long silence here, except to say that in a few months I will hopefully be living in a new state, with a new environment and a renewed desire to observe, think, and write.