Monk

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I've noticed a number of blogging friends have been getting a bit stressed and depressed lately. Thinking about my own case of restlessness, I was thinking that the spring may be taking its toll, as our bodies ache to Nature's call, a call that we cannot answer.

But then I realized that it's the same with the holiday season - Thanksgiving and Christmas. Then, of course, you have the summer doldrums. Life just sucks all year round.

At least its an angsty sort of suffering, rather than being afflicted with broken bones or cancer or even dental problems. One just isn't doing very well on that pursuit of happiness. I want to look like Elvis (the young years), or at least have half as many women as he enjoyed. Of course, you're going to feel miserable.

Still, it is tempting to see the apocalyptic in dark signs. Maybe there really is something more at work this season. I think of those bees we mentioned this morning: the way colonies collapse because the bees become disoriented and cannot even find their way back home. I wonder if we may be becoming disoriented in our own subtle ways, and maybe the world is collapsing. Or maybe not.

I may not be Elvis, but it's fun to think wildly sometimes. With a little talent and a lot of work, it could make a good novel or movie. People are hungry for end of the world tales. Or could this be part of the disorientation?

xXx

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I had a clear hour tonight and felt a little energy. So, I put in some work on my closet space.

In going through a big box I noticed a brown paper bag that was obviously filled with stuff. I was wondering what it could be. Videos? The bag was pretty heavy. Books? Why would I put them in a separate bag?

I opened the bag and discovered my old collection of Writer's Digest magazines, going back to undergraduate days, twenty years ago. That was embarrassing. Most of that material hasn't even been read. My old, fond ambitions come back to mock me.

Well, that won't happen again. I finally threw them away tonight.

xXx

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Aww, Beauty reveals to her tormentor and ravisher the secret of her video recording - at the very end. That's what I mean by Koontz being able to play with us. It can actually be frustrating, this turning our expectations and emotions into a pretzel. And the only thing you get out of it is being whisked past a few hours of dealing with oneself and one's life, though this is the point and its value, too.

It can make one feel regretful about spending so much of one's life on pulp and this addiction. If only I could feel more interested in the history, which might be still an avoidance of one's own real life, but at least it is substantive and edifying, though this is undercut by the fact that Monk's teflon brain cannot really build anything out of it - in one ear, out the other, so to speak.

There is the thought of going for the higher-brow fiction, such as Joyce Carol Oates' "Rape: A Love Story." It is fiction, it is fun, and it is substantively artful. Even the Nina Zero series is richer. Maybe one can experiment more boldly with trying out substantive fiction, undestanding that it still has to have that page-turning fun about it, such that Charles Dickens is not likely to work, as a particular example, which is a very tricky balancing act. Tom Wolfe's "I am Charlotte Simmons" is an example of a novel that satisfies that test. One can always have the more pulpy stuff on hand when a particular experiment fails.

(A couple of other examples of novels that pass this delicate and tough balancing test are "The Kite Runner" and "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time." These are works that don't merely manipulate our emotions and wow us with their sensationalism. They bring out aspects of our reality in a way that makes us marvel over the wondrousness of our life and world. It is a lot harder to find these, and it is a matter of subjective taste. Cormac McCarthy's "The Road" is another example.)

Meanwhile, the ready adjustment is to spend an extra session with the history at the expense of the pulp, so that the works of a Koontz can retain more of its potency and black magic. An addict always has to recalibrate the dosage in order to retain the edge of his drug. This holds for pop fiction, too.

xXx

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The birds are rebuilding a nest and on the same spot as years past. Funny, they even seem to be using the very outline of the old nest, building exactly on the dirty outline. I think the nest could stand to be another inch lower, but they obviously know what they are doing.

The building is going much slower this year. I wonder if it is because the dirt is too wet after the heavy rains. The are already making the porch dirty, though with only mud splotches so far. Well, 'tis the season.

xXx

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Monk couldn't turn this away at PostSecret:



Aww... Ladies, in the interest of cheering up our primate-protagonist, now would be a good time to post your boobs. One blogging friend promised to post her recently pierced nipples, but they still have not been seen and enjoyed. Do it for your fellow man!

xXx

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It's drizzling this morning, and Monk cannot take Patricia Cornwell outside and get a jump on the day's reading. But it is the expectation of spending the day with her crime thriller that makes Monk a bit eager for the day. She gives some juicy sallets in the lines that help to feed the inner misogynist and keep Monk aroused and interested.

xXx

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Monk shuts the door and lowers the window in Pop's office. This late in the morning, the air still has more of a chill wintry cast rather than the glowing warmth of oncoming spring.

Good! But summer is coming and nothing can be done about it.

xXx

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The "Israel" book is being reduced to just the morning reading. As much as Monk supposedly finds the history dramatic and fascinating, he needs the pure pleasure of escapist fiction more, where there is a greater hunger to turn the pages, even if it is about as edifying as pornography.

The fear was that Monk might not get around to finishing "Magic Mountain." It cannot serve as the fun reading, after all. The first thought was to go back to having such serious literature serve as weekend reading, but even that is no longer bearable. The answer is to treat it as serious reading, which means leaving it aside until after the library season. The fun reading gets all the weekend.

One has to get some enjoyment from life.

xXx

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A fast-running spy novel was the jump this reading life needed. That hunger to turn the pages and find out what happens. The day goes by more briskly. To be hungrily interested in something is a sort of riches.

"Magic Mountain" is a rereadable, and Monk does lose himself in it, but it is also a heavy and long haul. The story is not very juicy. After Joachim dies, Monk was wise in taking a break for a page-turner.

xXx

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It is a real letdown to my week when Maureen Dowd goes on leave or vacation, which seems to happen rather often. I'm afraid I'm a little bit in love...

And she is about as expensive as phone sex.

xXx