Fragmentary Chapters

I read a book today. A friend of mine prompted me to read it and I read it in its entirety in a day. I have another book I've been reading that I'm only half way through and it has been weeks. My desire to read the latter book is not so much smaller from the former, but it was the person behind the book; I wanted to read the book for the person who had suggested it. And that request far outweighed any particular literature preference for such a rainy night.




My Grandma asked what I was reading and I told her it was something my Mom had read too. We both agreed that Mother reads everything. In fact the joke when we were little was to never buy Mom a bookmark because she simpy never used them. My father could sit in front of the tv for just as many countless hours without ever shifting his weight. I'm happy to say I can spend equal hours engrossed in a book as I can in "Sex and the city" reruns. But leave it to me to find more than one box to climb into.



I remember back in college when this friend gave me a book for my birthday. It was the only gift he ever gave me in the decade I've known him. So, unsurprisingly, the book has always held a special place for me. Then there was the time my psuedo gave me his favorite book, The Count of Monte Cristo. And without hesitation, that classic instantly became my favorite as well. Some things are great in and of themselves. And some things are great because of the story behind them and the smiling faces etched in the memories of printed words.



A gal pal I know has a new beau which is most exciting since she seems very happy. As she told me about it, though, it saddened me to hear as she was trying to be almost indifferent about the significance such companionship was bringing into her life. The resigned independence and feigned indiferece she was attempting to embody as the true modern rang hollow as she embarassingly uttered the truth: I am delighting in having another to love and share in my life. And why the shame behind such a confession? A desire for love, to be loved doesn't hinder or lessen the enjoyment of life. But to deny the existence of the desire would be to play a role out of your range. And I think the role of You, the role of Me, is what we're best suited for.



I cut my hair and as simple as it may seem, there is something so empowering about a physical change, albeit 8 inches of hair. (Kind of brings Rapunzel losing her hair a la "Into the Woods" into a whole new light). Years ago when I first thought of coloring my hair, many were adamant about me going any color but blonde. Now there are those in my life who couldn't see me as anything else. Another friend when told of my separation from length whined, "You have your whole life to have short hair! Some of us pay good money for extensions to have hair like yours!" And so it goes with each decision made that stirs such change, this good, that one bad. Go left, never back. Change the tempo, keep it steady.



And amusingly, consuming a book in its entirety so speedily reminds me of how much I truly love to read. It's incredible the things we forget when they're left on the shelf.