I finished Ann Quinn's Berg last night and between she and Kavan and Carson I feel finally this coruscation of my idealized literature in real extant literature. I felt that way discovering Hole. Hole is my idea of the rock band, the archetypal band, the band that had to exist or I would have never made it to music. I did not like music before I was thirteen (it was no way to live). I liked reading but started to get manic, clinically nuts about it around that time because I had an intellectual growth spurt thereabouts and started to hate the books I'd always read. I exhibited ritualistic, grim trauma-reliving behavior with books, reading them again and again until I memorized long passages. The idea of abandoning a book to take up another was anxiety-inducing. Still now it feels liberating to finish a book and pick up another. And to encounter a contingent of Kurt-was-murdered advocates.
I also inhaled Bossypants this weekend and was pleased to learn Tina Fey and I have enough in common to generate some queasy I've-seen-my-doppelganger moments. As I read it alone at 2 a.m. I kept wanting to text my friends and justify these feelings by have them go "ah! crazy!" but blacked out before I could even think better of it. I'm anticipating another sweet, all engulfing-wave of anticonsciousness (beyond unconsciousness - which I love to see people confuse with the subconscious, as much as I love the classic asocial/antisocial conundrum) virtually any moment now.
The languid rubber-glove snap (you know the one!) of anticipation is the avatar on the Livejournal of my life right now. That was supposed to be a metaphor, but the extent to which it did not read as one bespeaks my desperate state too effectively for me to erase it. I am all wound up but, as you might have noted my use of the word languid, events are not, and I have to respect that. I keep forgetting that my outward appearance as feisty, go-getting, vivacious or vigorous does trick onlookers. If I can sucker myself into thinking I am that dynamic, surely I can see myself safely to reality, where I am cartoon depiction of an escargot (who wishes she were being played by Isabella Rossellini).
In closing: bat bomb.