Sunday, February 8, 2009
Well, this post really spoke to me. (Not for long though. It's quite short.) When I am sitting home, alone, I spend almost all my casual time surfing the net, and reading small things and avoiding long things and clicking on websites I just read to see if they have posted anything new. "They haven't! Well, let's see if someone responded to my comment!" The whole time, in the back of my head, there is a voice screaming to read a book, just sit down and read a book. Last week, I showed up for work six hours early, and, not wanting to go home, I went to Barnes and Noble. After browsing a bit, I settled down in a big comfy chair and read the first 180 pages of Edgar Rice Burrough's The Martian Tales Trilogy. It was awesome. For nearly six hours, I was immersed—immersed—on the moss-covered terrain of Mars, with a naked Confederate soldier, his naked Martian lady-love, and fifteen foot tall, eight-limbed, green aliens. Then I got up, bought the book, and it has sat atop a pile on my floor for nearly a week now, untouched. It just seems like so much effort! I would much rather read the same things over and over again! When not forced to by circumstances, reading long-form peices just seems like too much committment, too much effort, now. I need to be plugged in, man! Connected! Like a shark, always having to be moving. But sometimes I just want to be a moss-covered stone.