ne of the only positive things to come out of the last few weeks (while I watched my feline companion slowly wither to nothing, during which time I inflicted pain to hydrate her and endlessly bothered her to eat) was my reading.
There were a number of things I did to escape from the tragedy taking place. When Mookie was awake and about, I’d tend to her and coo over her. But when she slept, I diverted myself.
Writing? Not a chance. I couldn’t put two thoughts together (and the thoughts that I might have put together were darker than the belly of a whale in the bottom of a coal mine (how would that happen, exactly?)). I couldn’t write. I couldn’t even think of writing. Because writing made me think and thinking made me feel and feeling hurt. Excruciatingly.
So I played Spelunky, over and over and over. And I watched anime, dozens of episodes of the stupidest stuff: T&A harems, giant robots, inline skaters. Even shotgunned through The Legend of Korra, which was good – I’ll have to review that someday.
But I also read. I tore into books, looking for any escape. The usual way I do it (since I book review what I’ve just read) is to finish up and toss the book next to the keyboard, just to the right. Usually I’ll maybe have a book there. Sometimes I have to go looking through the stacks for something I read a while ago that could be reviewed. But this time?
I had a stack of books.
I had Razor Girl (which I just reviewed). And The Girl on the Train (up just a few minutes ago). Then there was This Census-Taker. Lamour’s Utah Blaine, I finished in two days (tossed it onto the stack and Razor came off. And last night, How to be Happy, which was a glorious find.
I’m figuring that people in hospital waiting rooms do this. On long flights, sure, you might read (but you also are on vacation so the book goes dormant). I can’t think of anytime outside of lingering tragedy that we might read so much. And to all the authors who comforted me with their vivacious redheads, their troubled mountaintop children, and their don’t-back-down gunslingers, I thank you. It’s not often that the people of the page can give us so much comfort. I wrapped myself in paper and escaped the realities of my world.
And now she’s gone. Poor cat.
The pain lingers.
I’ve just started Stone Lake.