I haven’t posted anything on here for a while. I’ve felt bad about it. Sometimes. Other times not so much.
I started this blog coming to the end of my second masters, as a means of continuing to engage with literature, rather than transitioning from academia to reading without thinking. But I have to admit that I’ve just not been getting through so many books.
The reason? Life, it happens. I’ve started working full time again for the first time in years, so obviously there just aren’t as many minutes in the day. I’ve been trying to find somewhere to live, which always takes up far more time than it should. For the first time ever I’m working Monday-Friday, having the same days off as my friends – which inevitably means I see them more often, a fantastic perk. But time gets eaten away so easily. It’s hard to make time to do the things you love sometimes.
I have, however, been keeping up with cooking – something that I make sure I do in order to feel a vestige of creativity. Although I do intend to do some drawing sometime soon, it feels like time. But then that might have to wait until house moving has ended, and I begin to feel more settled. But then perhaps it shouldn’t? Why don’t I just seize the moment, grab a pencil and get on with it?
That might be a good plan actually. But my partner has just messaged to say he’s on his way over, so I may have to put that off again.
There’s also the piano, which needs learning. About eight months ago I sat down and learned to play around half of the intro to ‘The Sound of Silence’. Feeling pleased with my progress, I then stopped, being far too busy with everything else going on. When I’ve moved, I’m definitely making time to finally learn myself a musical instrument, specifically this one. I’m sure that somewhere there’s a miniscule Mozart hidden away inside me.
Knitting is another thing I love doing. I’ve still been on it sporadically, sporadic being the word. I’ll do more of this later.
And then there’s the books, so many books, on my shelf, waiting to be read. Also on the shelves of bookshops and pages on the internet. Unread books contain a great deal of potential energy within their covers – you never know when you’re going to pick up something that will become your next favourite, or has the potential to change you in some way. Or simply make you laugh. I find myself full of greed sometimes to read everything, to make my way unrelenting through all that I can. But at other moments a shelf full of volumes unread and the promise they speak of, can be just as fulfilling. I guess that for the time being, the satisfaction of reading-to-come will have to suffice. In the meantime, I’ll have to find other topics of conversation.