These aren’t book reviews. per se.

They’re just the chronicles of a perpetually self-questioning creative-type stuck in the body of a TV producer for 5 years, on a journey to start picking up books and looking at them. again.

i believe i was literate once. after too much of louisa m. alcott’s fabled 4-some at the tender age of 9, an aerogram to my father included the statement: “I am making moral resolutions to improve myself.” this was violently intercepted by my aunt. the sentence still comes floating back, like some deranged declaration of prematurity.

in an essay for my first collegiate literary venture, aptly entitled “autobiography of my reading,” i wrote about how the very layout and typeface of the letters would speak to me, pulling me in and distracting me at the same time, and forming a distinctly visual and sensory reading experience, rather than just a cerebral one.

on a snowy christmas day in new york 2003, i went to cafe reggio on west 3rd b/w mcdougal and bleeker, and, feeling very much like the sole and rather stupid survivor of a nuclear holocaust, read.

during one of the nicest dates i’ve ever been on, i was read t.s.elliot. the poem was my request. although it should be said it was a rather famous one.

what happens here onwards is foggy

<<6 years. edit. studio. time passes. shifts. late night. days gone. render. wait. redo. churn out. base humor. crude translation. lowest common denominator. churn out. one-dimensional. churn out. automated method to fight mediocrity. churn out. work hard, not smart. churn out. churn out. churn.>>


burnout. not knowing when you’re full. letting the noise filter in. reading for the wrong reasons and failing.

it’s all the same thing i tell you.>>

so in the early honey-moonish backwash of job quitting, I’ve stumbled across the joy of reading.

tell me what you think. what you read. what you think i should read. whether my descriptions of text help you in some way for some reason.


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