Infinite Questing

It’s cold and somebody keeps taking my printouts at the end of the hall, thinking they belong to someone else. I wore my skirt like a blanket and I am most certainly bone-chilled. It was two degrees with wind chill in Central Park this morning. The coffee here tastes like a recently-dumped-in bathroom smells. I have shut my door. There will be warmth only when I start a fire with everybody else’s printouts, upon stealing them from the end of the hall and bringing them into my office, thinking they’re mine.

Finally I have begun to read Infinite Jest. On Saturday I drove Brooklynward and met with two friends, one of whom I hadn’t seen in quite some time, and who burst into appalled gasp when I said I hadn’t read Infinite Jest. It startled me. So when I left Jerseyward later that night, the other friend sent with me his copy of Infinite Jest. I’ve had difficulty finishing books lately, so I’m hoping that writing about it here, and repeating its title three times, will keep my brain in gear. My goal is now out in the blogosphere. Everybody knows.

I am embarking on an adventure in my fuchsia ship decked out in wood barrels of salt and wine. My bearskin is warm against the cool ocean winds.

I am listening to Wire—Pink Flag. With the door shut I feel safe and much too isolated. The goats are far, far away.

I am goosepimpling with arctic neuroscience and eager beaverhood.