uncommoncold

I am a very visual reader- almost cripplingly so. I'm not sure how most people correlate words on a page to the imagery behind their eyes, but when I read about "orange skies at dusk", my brain lights up and I'm somewhere off in the desert with fire exploding on a horizon and a smooth haze cascading over hills of sand. Mention someone as "clear as an unmuddied lake", and I'm underwater, touching liquid stones and looking upwards, a personality gliding along the gentle curve of a meniscus.

When I was skimming through the first few pages of Brautigan's In Watermelon Sugar at the bookstore a few weeks back, I literally had to pause in mid-sentence several times in order to keep my head on straight. So many words, connected with threads and wax and perhaps even chain link fences, and I struggle to keep them coherent and hell, even in their proper order. Mixing and matching. Weeding my way through the flickers of brilliance contained in each small sentence, attempting to view the picture as holistically as possible. Trying not to overlook even the smallest of letters.

This is why reading is a nearly orgasmic experience. My brain goes fucking haywire when let loose, and books are the gateway that get me there. They always have been. There are two places where I am absolutely at peace with both myself and the world around me: one, when I'm completely submerged under water, and two, when I'm in a library.

And, in conclusion.

Waking up in someone else's bed with bruised knees after a dinner party that turned into a kitchen dance party is a good thing, right?