page after page

i am reading The Bell Jar again. this is round 3. it's been about 2 years since the last time i read it, and 14 or so since the first. when i read it the 2nd time, i didn't remember anything about it other than i remembered liking it when i read it when i was 14 or 15... somewhere around there, the common age for the first time read of this particular work, it seems. HA! and so when i read it again at 27, i was startled by it completely. it unhinged things in me, let long hidden things float to the surface. or come screaming up, tearing up, bleeding to the surface.

the language and the tempo of the book are easy in a lulling kind of way. slowly, slowly, we (i) follow the guide of the words, chapter after chapter, and when the break happens, when the collapse of function occurs inside our heroine, we (i) collapse as well. something unhinges. and in that gap, the text of this book begins to pool.

yesterday i slid back and forth between my graphite pages and the pages of this book. i'd draw for an hour or two and then go read. draw for an hour or so and, again, go read. and then i took a late afternoon jog through the vineyard and noticed spring has arrived. daisies and vultures out everywhere and the thirsty evening clouds of gnats. it was a relief to see these signs of a new season. the waking-up of the land. and when i came home, i made a big dinner, took a shower, and got in bed again with my book. i read until i fell asleep. i don't remember having dreamt. and i woke, sore-eyed, to the aroma of fresh hot coffee.

this day will mirror yesterday in my activities but this strange, daily education and practice is taking shape, clicking in to place, and it simply just feels right. my life contained and expressed and breathing across so many sheets of paper. the soft texture. the mark of graphite. the smudges of type on my thumbs. the gray that shadows up my forearms from drawing and ends eventually on my cheek.