September

Hello, blogger friends. My last post was my 300th, was that noteworthy? I'm not sure, but I don't think so.

I know this much, that today is unbelievably sunny and lovely, but the mosquito infestation from the rain we're getting that California is not has made the out of doors unbearable. Today I'm grateful for the screened in porch and the computer in my lap, and the glass of wine by my side. And for living where we have plenty of water.

In honor of 300 posts, I looked randomly back over the six years of stuff I've posted (or not) here. Who is this person, I wonder sometimes, and how boring can I get I wondered, too. But I also thought, hey those are some nice pictures, or that post wasn't so bad, and always, always, hey, aren't these the best people who write and read and comment here....

I looked over my unpublished and probably never will be 53 draft posts, wondering why I hadn't shared them. Lots of reasons. Some were boring, some too personal, some too negative or too true, some abrupt or unfinished or unpolished. Tedious maybe, even for me. You probably know what I mean.

So I started this post instead and I mean to hit publish, no matter what. Hopefully it's not too tedious.

I haven't a lot to say of any importance, and yet on I babble, out of habit maybe. I'm still going with the flow and trying not to let life get me down or chew me up any more than necessary, and that's not easy task because I am so darn tired. Tired, I tell you. Too tired to read. But I'm trying, so hard, to become a reader again, it's become important to me for some reason to find my way back to my books.

I miss being a reader, being able to inhale a book, whip off a review about it and grab the next one and go.
I sat last night for a good ten minutes, looking at three bookcases of unread books and authors that I want to read, and I scanned up and down the shelves wondering why nothing can hold my interest right now.

Shebooks and short stories, and my blogger friend's posts - that's what I can handle right now, not much more. I have two long overdue advanced reader copies of short stories by two adored authors that I can't seem to start, let alone finish, and they are mocking me, apologies to Ellen Gilchrist and Amy Bloom.

It's a mystery why I can't read or really write much anymore, why I feel so dull, but I do, and there's nothing to be done about it except hang in, keep trying and hope for a sea change.

I did read one book recently, at the request of my sister, called Coming Clean: A Memoir by Kimberly Rae Miller, and it sure did trigger some childhood emotions and adult rage in me, as it is about hoarding and trying to help people who can't or won't be helped. It was reminiscent of Jeannette Walls train-wreck of a childhood tell-all The White Castle, I think, which I loved because it made me feel so normal. I am thrilled I can remember all that - an author, a story line, from so long ago, and yet I am also freaked out by how quickly I can forget another.

I had the most unsettling experience this week of reading a review on my Librarything page that I had written in March about a book I can't remember reading, at all, and even the review I allegedly wrote meant nothing to me, I could remember nothing at all. This is how it begins, I thought. I panicked for a minute until I was able to remind myself that the really good books, I remember mostly, not just the title and the author or what I thought of them, but the characters, too, mostly. They are like old friends, never forgotten, at least not yet. But that completely forgotten book was a first, ugly, scary milestone for me, especially since I read so few now.

I used to read  books in one sitting, maybe two - and I always read at almost one a week, but now, it's been almost a year, or more, I can't remember, since I inhaled a book. or managed more than one a month. Before this one, it was the Fault in Our Stars that I read in one sitting, over 2 years ago. I loved that book.

And oh, my poor book blog. One post this year. Sad. Sadder still, my number of books read per year has gotten so low, I'm at a 12 year low point, by half. I just can't get started or stay engaged. Yes, sad. Especially considering my all time high count of unread books. 294. At this pace I will not live that long. A book a week and I can knock them out in under 6 years, providing I don't keep acquiring or downloading them. One a month, I'm looking at 25 year problem. I'm sure I won't live that long. Maybe it's time to give up and get rid of half of them, to take the pressure off.


But hey, here's something that's not sad. I've been collecting art pictures online, things that please my eye, and that's the first kind of thing I ever used to post here, so who cares that I can't write or have little to say or can't read as much as I used to - here's some cool stuff to look at, a visual sampling of my recent internet ADD.  Enjoy.

Thank goodness for nature and art, and for cameras and internets and computers so I can look at these things any time I want to, especially when I can't concentrate on much else.

xo

ps If you need any of the photo references, ask me in comments, I can usually backtrack through my rabbit holes.