Do you ever get scared that you’ve thought everything that you’re ever going to think? Is that why oldsters seem to do nothing but reminisce? Occasionally I wonder, are all my great ideas behind me? Am I just going to bore myself to death? Probably not.
Just finished reading Night and Day by Virginia Woolf. It was a morbidly fascinating roller coaster ride, an emotional orgy. My final thought was “My God, if that is what went on in that poor woman’s brain 24/7 it’s no wonder she walked into a river with rocks in her pocket. It must have been exhausting. The book just…ended… No tidy wrap up, not resolution, no happily every after or final tragedy. Just endless emotional upheaval, and never-ending, gut wrenching introspection, probably until the end of all lives in the book. If it hadn’t been on Kindle I would have thrown it across the room.
Now I’m in a temporary canoodle of obsession. Am I thinking too much, not enough. What I think today is I’m going to be more careful researching the life of an author before reading one of the “classics.”
When I read a book that causes an overall negative effect on my emotional stability it always turns out the author lived a miserable life, was an alcoholic, died penniless in a flophouse, committed suicide, or some other tragic state of existence. Hemingway has this effect. I tried to like his books but I always ended up sad or angry or both by the end of the book.
I can see why people think books are dangerous. They can be wonderful too. I just need to be more selective about what I put in my brain.
“The history of men’s opposition to women’s emancipation is more interesting perhaps than the story of that emancipation itself.” — Virginia Woolf (A Room of One’s Own)
Grandson finally finished painting my office and repairing the furniture broken in the process. I am in heaven. I didn’t realize just how much I rely on my private space to maintain sanity. The walls are a pale pink almost white. I got rid of all the boxes and junk that were piled up in there and ahhh. What serenity. When Mr. Husband and now Mr. Grandson start piling questions on me or teasing me, I go in there and shut the door in their face. Such satisfaction is wonderful.
I decided to get rid of the area rug in there so it is a hardwood floor and minimal furniture. Uncluttered, restful. PINK. Yes, I already said that, but my room is a bastion of femininity in a this man cave also known as my home. Heavy dark wood bookshelves, dark leather, all the stuff that guys like. Difficult to move, hard to clean, shows dust 5 minutes after dusting. What do they care they aren’t the ones cleaning it anyway.
I make Mr. Husband nervous every once in a while when he asks “OK what exactly would you do if you could change things around?” My answer is “well I’d start with gasoline and a match and go from there.” He always squirms when I say that. I can see the wheels turning in his head “oh crap, maybe she’s serious this time.”
So I have my room back, my privacy back. I can think, create and dream undisturbed. At least for a while anyway. I’m contemplating rigging up the doorknob to deliver an electric shock to anyone touches it when I am in seclusion.