Rythmical Rants in the Anthills Upstairs

First June

I joined a book club because I really needed that kick in the pants to get me past page 35 of the 600 books I'm currently reading, and I instantly started to regret it as I realized our club's meeting date was five days away, which would mean that I would need to read 70 some odd pages each day up until then. Who has time for that? And it's not like I can back out, being that I was the one who recommended this book (I might even be leading the discussion). I don't think ahead much. Well, anyway, today I finally gave myself a few hours of utter silence in order to really dive into my reading. The book is called Three Junes, and it is a wonderfully poetic read. I had to make coffee at page ten because my mind was drifting onto my to do list -- vacuuming, washing the dogs, etc -- but after page 20 and two cups of java, I was thoroughly tied into the characters. The first of the three Junes is about a middle aged man named Paul who has decided to take a tour of Greece following the death of his wife. He feels as though he's the kind of guy who blends in with the curtains or the wallpaper -- the guy whose job it is to restore order -- to put away, so to speak, evidence of lives being lived all around him -- never his own. I had tears in my eyes sporatically throughout my reading -- really touching. I'm so glad that I have a book club to force me to do the things that I love to do. Isn't that strange? If I love it, which I do, why does everything else take presedence over reading? I realize that my blog today is a bit British and Boring, but I think I've stumbled upon something interesting. I've always liked to sculpt and there's a studio two streets away that allow people to purchase time and use of the kiln for a small monthly fee, and I keep thinking that I'd love to do that, but for some reason I never do. I've been living in this house for six years and haven't sculpted because I don't have access to a kiln. How strange that we don't allow ourselves the little pieces of happiness that are often readily available to us because we don't think we should afford our time to such things -- as if happiness is of little value -- as if our paychecks mean so much more. So, in a way, I find that I'm constantly restoring order as well, and not living, like Paul. Hmmmmm. Does anyone else find this to be true?