Confessions of an Illiterate

As a result of medication, depression, ennui, or all-of-the-above, I haven’t read a book in about eight years. I read the Harry Potter books, Twilight, ten pages of Fifty Shades of Grey, and The Road. Other than that, I have not read a fucking thing.

I didn’t decide to stop reading books. I loved reading. Even when I work full-time, I read at least two or three books a week. Since I was small, books have been my refuge and my delight. etc. You know the drill. In the my more recent years of what I call “bad reality,” I think books did save my life. A lot.

I stopped reading because I had a Seizure. Medication-related, I’m convinced. I was in my backyard. I was on the ground. I was in the  ER. No diagnosis. After that I took to my bed for six weeks and watched every episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer on videotape. My personal collection. When I finally emerged, the printed word no longer interested me.

Not just books. Newspapers, magazines, The New Yorker, Yes. The New Yorker..

Not-reading taught me a lot.

I’ll get to that.

Happy Purim: My Basket

I received my first Purim basket as a “single” person this week. Rather than fall into “woe-is-me” mode, I focused on the fact that for the first time in 16 years, I didn’t have to share the bag of goodies. I could  have the tangerine and the Clif Bar. This year there was a package of Red Vines and you know what? I could keep that, too. I felt a little selfish, thinking along those lines. The initial shock of receiving the basket in the first place could have plunged me into a depression, but I didn’t let it. I forced myself to feel better by focusing on the basket. So I think sometimes it’s okay to be a little selfish.

Queen Esther & Stupendous Man, 2003