another list of books
We are well into a new year, so there is no point in looking back. What will we really learn from the past anyway? Platitudes. Well wishes. Just that one tweak — will make us thinner, hotter, richer, closer to god, better than our enemies, better than our friends — whatever it is we are truly after. This time of year let’s us hang our hat on something. Hit the reset button. Against all odds, we begin anew.
No resolutions for me. And no, I am not trying to be contrarian for contrarians sake. I just get lost in a year. All day is a long time, forget about a year. I am amazed by a year in review instagram post. My short term memory is non-existent.
This year will likely be another filled with longing. For what? Hard to say. But I think that is the point. When the longing stops, are you even alive? I digress.
Once again, I hope that this new year is filled with beautiful things. I will take time to look up at the trees. Feel my bare feet on the grass. The snow on my tongue. The fire in my belly. Yes. I am really alive.
I will write more poetry. Try in vain at a novel, or something shorter. I will tell the empty page how I feel. It is always there for me. I am doing fine. I will probably read another 50+ books, but I don’t care about that anymore. It is a meditation. Quiet time. I have thrown my television into the river. No earring yet to report. Peace and love.
If you have any questions about the list. How to read more. Or why any of this is important — I would love to connect.
I used to think a person could change, that humans were this sort of malleable mass of energy. That our minds could be opened by hearing a song that truly fucked, by watching a movie that was like nothing you had ever seen before, or reading a book that could supplant bad thoughts with good ones.
Wishful thinking. Our desire to be different pushes us to place our bets then shuffle the cards in our favor — to be the hero of our own story. We consume works as trophies. Eating the world. This urge doesn’t fundamentally change us or even satiate our drive for originality. We are still that same person — scared and alone, looking for love.
So what do we do it all for? I’m not talking about the meaning of it all. Boring. Why talk about what we watched or what we read at all? Like consuming is some all-knowing, righteous act. To better ourselves? Or to fill the big super-unknown of time and space? To enlighten the uninitiated — the non-seekers? Or to signal our learnedness and breezy intelligence? Maybe a smattering of each. The latter if we are keeping it fully one hundred.
Maybe the point is to fill our lives with beauty. Babies. Puppies. Flowers. Sunrise. Sunset. Poetry and literature. And to encourage the next generation to fall in love with beauty and to make art of their own. And the wheel goes round and round. Maybe. Just maybe.
I hope you stay inspired. Chase the spark. If you haven’t found it. You know, the moments of solitude where it all clicks in place. Keep looking. This is just another list of books that some guy who doesn’t know much read this year. Proceed with caution.
I will keep filling my cup with beauty, love, pain, and heartbreak in hopes of one day creating something lasting and beautiful. Maybe i’ll even inspire someone to get out what they’ve been holding in. And the big wheel keeps on turning.
—Me, this time last year
I hear you on the longing part.
This year it felt like the value of reading was that it put me in touch with that feeling
Just keep reading for readings' sake. The peace in the act. Rolling in the wet clay. Because it's there. And it can be done. Onward!