Considering it’s the first week of December, I’m not likely to finish many (if any) more books in 2014. Worse, I’ve been abysmal at tracking books I have read throughout the year, making me a damned boring blogger. As I recall, I vowed either at the end of 2013 or beginning of 2014 I would change my ways, magically becoming the most dedicated keeper of book records ever to have drawn breath. I would read all the books! Write about all the books! Shock horror, it didn’t happen. My Ulysses read similarly curled up and died, its dried up husk tumbling past the reach of suburbia, last sighted somewhere in the plains states. With it went most of my hopes and dreams, but don’t worry your pretty little head about that. It isn’t unusual. Not with me. Only when I express optimism should you be concerned, if strangers can be moved to care in these days of shortened attention spans and increasingly insular existence. Even I’ve stopped caring what I was just now blathering about.
I’ve finished a few books I haven’t had time to write about here, most of which didn’t exactly blow me away with their genius. I can also legitimately lay blame for my absence on an extended period of ennui in which I’ve wanted to do nothing but sleep. In fact, if I lay my head down now I’d be out before you could count to ten, waking only when prodded with a sharp stick, coaxed by the strong smell of coffee which I can’t reach without rolling out of bed.
What’s to blame? What’s always to blame: everyone and everything save myself. Part of that’s due to the inevitable – arguably excessive – time taken up by the slings and arrows of outrageous daily life, annoying in its repetition. Another consists of various health issues which have found it necessary to strike at the same time. One has proven not to be serious, though it will involve very minor surgery carried out in the doctor’s office. The other has required an ongoing series of tests, and though I ought to be optimistic of course I am not. I’m like a man with a minor virus; no amount of encouragement will convince me I should not be thinking end of life thoughts, mulling the distribution of my possessions.
Again, don’t mind me. Fatalism is de rigueur. It followeth wheresoe’er I go.
It is my fervent wish I’ll manage to assemble a Best Reads of 2014 list, not troubling myself with what I’ve forgotten I’ve read, because who’d even know the difference, anyway? There were some shining lights, though damned if I can recall a one right now. For as long as I can stay awake I’ll investigate what I’ve read and loved in 2014. If you’ve heard nothing by Christmas, you have permission to elbow me sharply in the ribs.
No promises, loves. Good intentions but no promises. Expect little, be surprised when things go smoothly. This is how you avoid disappointment, or at least side-step the worst of it.
Who am I, what do I want to do with my life, and why does anything matter?
Good signs. All these downer questions are very good signs, indeed.