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  • to be sorted » is anything wrong with my mind?

    to be sorted » is anything wrong with my mind?

    If I stare too long at my stacks of books and magazines and the Sunday NYT, I’m gonna lose it. Currently: Audre Lorde open, journal open, T Magazine beside me, Claudia Rankine and a new notebook I didn’t need to buy at my feet, last Sunday’s paper I didn’t read — yet — on the coffee table.

    I’ve got gifts I need to give on my record stand, and of course, more books, stacked.


    On Sundays I am consumed with the need to read EVERYTHING, at once.

    I have got to learn to calm down.

    The first Sunday of last month I read the entire Sunday Times — with the exception of the Sports section, of course — and was so pleased with myself that I wrote it down in my journal, and again, here, now.

    There’s a specific kind of accomplishment I feel after reading the paper. Like it’s so fucking novel of me to hold an actual newspaper in my hands.

    Friday morning I was on a flight to New York, catching up on my New Yorkers, because that’s what flights are for, and mad at myself for only putting three in my bag (plus the New York Times Magazine), but putting more than four magazines in your bag for a day business trip has got to be actually fucking INSANE behavior, correct?

    The point is, I always have good intentions. When it comes to my reading productivity, that is.

    Today I did manage to read, and finish, Claudia Rankine’s Don’t Let Me Be Lonely. Later, I was (re)watching She’s Gotta Have It on Netflix (the series, not the original) and at a dinner where Jamie Overstreet’s being a prick about Nola Darling’s sexy little black dress, he gives her Citizen, which is currently perched on one of the three stacks of books and magazines and papers on my coffee table.

    I looked at the TV and looked at my book and wondered, as I often do, why I was watching Netflix when I really should be reading. But whatever, I like that show and it feels more constructive than watching Frasier.

    Don’t Let Me Be Lonely is a marvel. Citizen, too. Because Claudia Rankine is a marvel.

    I have read page 40 multiple times today, which is maybe why I can’t seem to get around to sorting through all my stacks of reading material.

    (Yes, I intentionally posted the photo this way.)

    “Have I ever vomited love or coughed up blame?”


    Previously: "focus your intensity; quit being the apology"