And the crazy continues ...

Something has awakened in me a thirst for knowledge unlike that which I have ever known. Even when I was in college it wasn't like this. Back then, I had a very good reason to bury myself in textbooks, i.e., I was paying for it, not to mention the eternally-motivating concept of grades. Now, I'm not sure what is driving me. But I'm being driven, of that, there is no doubt. Is this an intellectual awakening? A search for enlightenment? Purpose? A cry for help? A mid-life crisis? A normal part of adulting? Am I descending (or ascending, depending on how you look at it) into madness? Or, most likely, all of the above?

The effects of this are most evident in the books I'm reading. Books. Rarely in my life have I read more than one book at a time. I know some people do this often, but in the past, I couldn't comprehend why a person would divert their focus from a literary work, especially one he or she found worthwhile. (In truth, I probably thought these people slackers. Apologies.) The only time I remember doing this was when I was deep in my Lovecraft/Poe phase. I would read one story or work, then take a break by reading something lighter. (This see-sawing is also necessary when reading non-fiction, not that I do that often. I need fiction in my life. I need to go somewhere else for a little while.) But lately, I keep finding myself thinking, "Ooh, I want to read that." For instance, my husband told me about Ursula Le Guin (The New York Times described her as "America's greatest living science fiction writer."). I want to read her work. My friend wants to start reading books by "crazy Russians," like Dostoevsky. I want to read those, too. A friend of a friend recommends Hot Pterodactyl Boyfriend. Sure, why the fuck not?

The bad part is, I have never been especially good at multi-tasking, and now I find myself at an unfortunate literary crossroad. I'm currently reading The Somnambulist by Jonathan Barnes, Wizard and Glass by Stephen King, V. by Thomas Pynchon, as well as Selected Writings from Carl Jung. I'm also dabbling in a short history of the Necronomicon that is accompanied by some scary-ass artwork. We're talking nightmare shit. I told my sister about it and she said, "Why? Why would you read that?" to which I answered, in so many words, "Because." Anyway, I've been able to stave off starting Hyperion by Dan Simmons and but only just. Long story short, I'm lacking focus (you already know this, people).

Another effect of transient thinking:  my blog entries have increased, while the work on my novel has decreased. Okay, stopped. Until today that is. I'm so going to work on it today, damn it. Still, I see it as not necessarily a bad thing (rose-colored glasses and all). I'm accepting of my new found chaotic thinking. I'm so very "roll with it" right now.

Another theory is that all this is being caused by my uptake in caffeine. I'm a caffeine fiend these days. In my mind, caffeine equals productivity, be it reading, writing, house-cleaning or just being awake late at night. My excuse? I'm being enabled. The intricacies of my relationship with coffee intrigue me, though, since in the past, I've used alcohol to inspire me, though I haven't gone that route for some time. For now, I'll continue to abstain. I want to see where this is going.

All aboard, people. Blaine the pain is taking us to crazy town. Benny's coming, Mr. Moon, Cthulhu and the shadow archetype. It's gonna be fun.

J.L. Dodd