Wednesday, June 02, 2004
jumpy...
I read. It's a fast read, over and done in less than 24 hours. Everything about the book is fast, rapid, rat-a-tat-tat, bam-bam-bam. I peruse the words in as leisurely a pace as possible, but still I manage to devour 3/4 of it by the end of the first evening, the only reading existing during the commute time.
Fast. And violent. And foul. I suffer through the painful phrases with only a few winces. Until, inexplicably, I find myself unable to continue around page 122. I'm waiting at the bus stop, waiting for a possibly non-existent bus, the bus I've been waiting for the last 20 minutes. I close the book, look up the street, and start pacing, tapping my fingers rat-a-tat-tat to the rhythm in my head that has nothing to do with the music in my headphones. Yes, waiting for the bus is making me antsy, but it's more than that - far more.
It's the book in my hands, the book that is telling me to open it again, to soak up the words through my eyes, into my bloodstream, so that they can swim and jump and make me feel jerky and nervous.
I open the book again, take in the disturbing written imagery, and feel a slight nausea build, the darkly metallic taste of bile and dental fillings swishing in my mouth. Again I close the book. And I pace.
The bus arrives. I board, sit near the back, and my hands open the book again, unbidden. I read. I want to stop, but I want to finish, get it done and over with so that I can move onto something more pleasant. As I read my fingers resume their restless rat-a-tat-tat rat-a-tat-tat, with my right knee and heel shifting, shaking, jumping in time to my rapid-fire digits. I nearly bark aloud with bitter laughter as the song "Somewhere Over the Rainbow", as sung by Israel Kamakawiwo'ole, seeps into my ears - the sweet, gentle voice so at odds with the jarring black letters on the off-white page.
Over the rainbow indeed. I am over the rainbow, a black/grey rainbow of anger and violence and mental instability, squeamish about the pictures the words paint in my mind, but curious about the end to this 208 page trip into nihilism and anarchy.
As I finish the last page today, as I close the book for the final time, I wonder whether I liked the story that just unfolded. I remain undecided, able to see the talent of the author, recognizing the story to be a worthy one, but thinking that it's not a trip I'd be willing to take again any time soon. And I think:
"I don't think I'll be watching the movie. At least not for a while."
Fast. And violent. And foul. I suffer through the painful phrases with only a few winces. Until, inexplicably, I find myself unable to continue around page 122. I'm waiting at the bus stop, waiting for a possibly non-existent bus, the bus I've been waiting for the last 20 minutes. I close the book, look up the street, and start pacing, tapping my fingers rat-a-tat-tat to the rhythm in my head that has nothing to do with the music in my headphones. Yes, waiting for the bus is making me antsy, but it's more than that - far more.
It's the book in my hands, the book that is telling me to open it again, to soak up the words through my eyes, into my bloodstream, so that they can swim and jump and make me feel jerky and nervous.
I open the book again, take in the disturbing written imagery, and feel a slight nausea build, the darkly metallic taste of bile and dental fillings swishing in my mouth. Again I close the book. And I pace.
The bus arrives. I board, sit near the back, and my hands open the book again, unbidden. I read. I want to stop, but I want to finish, get it done and over with so that I can move onto something more pleasant. As I read my fingers resume their restless rat-a-tat-tat rat-a-tat-tat, with my right knee and heel shifting, shaking, jumping in time to my rapid-fire digits. I nearly bark aloud with bitter laughter as the song "Somewhere Over the Rainbow", as sung by Israel Kamakawiwo'ole, seeps into my ears - the sweet, gentle voice so at odds with the jarring black letters on the off-white page.
Over the rainbow indeed. I am over the rainbow, a black/grey rainbow of anger and violence and mental instability, squeamish about the pictures the words paint in my mind, but curious about the end to this 208 page trip into nihilism and anarchy.
As I finish the last page today, as I close the book for the final time, I wonder whether I liked the story that just unfolded. I remain undecided, able to see the talent of the author, recognizing the story to be a worthy one, but thinking that it's not a trip I'd be willing to take again any time soon. And I think:
"I don't think I'll be watching the movie. At least not for a while."
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United States, California, Los Angeles, San Fernando Valley, English, Carol, Female, 36-40.
