Once more, this week has been chock full of intrigues, adventures, double-crosses, and unexpected (and all-too-expected) love. Except not at all. Except actually. My life, of course, is incredibly boring. But I’ve been reading distinctly more than my dose of adventure.
A small highlight from the week: for my upper class on Wednesday and Thursday (which is whatever, I’m also working Saturday but it’s a whole thing and I don’t want to go into it at this juncture) we learn a literary device each week and so we covered anadiplosis. Not a term I was familiar with but a technique that is relatively common. The thing where the end of the sentence is the beginning of the next.
This enabled us to watch a couple fun clips in class. First we had the emblematic “Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering.” Iconic. Yoda. I didn’t even try to explain the literary device of his speech patterns (which is called anastrophe). But it was fun. Even better was when we watched part of Galadriel’s intro to Fellowship of the Ring (“History became legend. Legend became myth.”) and the students wanted to watch more. That was a major plus.
Really not much else going on in my life. Next week is a holiday week for Chuseok, which is why this week’s schedule is strange and annoying. I will talk about Chuseok next week, though you’re welcome to look it up yourself too. We get pretty much no holidays off at my branch so having like three days is really something.
Anyway. I know I probably spend almost as much time thinking of bad metaphors for reading as actual time spent reading but whatever, I’m over it. My latest is this: some books twist the harp of my heartstrings into a cat’s cradle so taut it doesn’t even need to be plucked to sing.
So my heart has been singing of late.
I sometimes like to think of myself as a bit of a cold customer, not really icy but someone mysterious and aloof and imposing. Serene and self-sufficient and devil-may-care. I’m not sure why, but I’ve always sort of been enamored with that general vibe. People who know me know, obviously, that I rarely (except actually never) pull that off. I have all the emotions. So many emotions, sometimes, that I want to vomit to expel them all. Literal emotion vomit. The strange thing is, though, that I’m at my most vomity when I’m reading. Like, books are way more likely than people to threaten to pull my stomach out of my mouth. I’m not sure why books do this so often when life does it so rarely, but I guess I’ll take what I’m given and be grateful.
That may have gotten more strangely graphic than I intended but what can you do. Somehow we went from a beautiful metaphor about singing (you’ve gotta admit it’s a pretty good one) to vomiting emotions. Which is less beautiful.
I know I talk about them all the time but what can I say. If the vomit metaphor doesn’t convey how they make me feel, then I don’t know what to tell you. Stories. Just, stories.
Gah. I’m descending into inane babbling because I simply cannot, like, ugh. Books, okay? Wow.
There’s something inexorable about it; it’s totally out of my control but I don’t think I would stop it if I could. Were it in my power to do so, I think I would refrain. As much as emotion-vomit makes for tightly wound living, I would not exchange it for vomit-free living. This, more than anything else, makes me grateful for my own literacy. What a gift it is that collections of small lines and curves can make me weep.
I haven’t even been reading anything particularly powerful recently, though I’ve been reading plenty. This is just a series of thoughts that have occurred to me over the past several weeks in which books have been playing pretty seriously with my emotions.
Best of luck to you all this week. Some weeks need more luck than others and maybe this is one of them for you. You can do it.