fuckyeahreading!

iamthehellkitten:

Sunday: a pile of books to finish reading; a pile of books to review, when I make time.

This, inevitably, must be the Sunday they talk about.

Family comes over, with the baby, and you follow the crazy-disgusting, yet soothing Sunday rule: no need to shower ‘til you feel like it. Look at the new hardcover you bought yourself (your reward!, what else?), but still foster security, in thrall of memory (because this is also my way of telling you, You must read Gina Apostol’s Gun Dealers’ Daughter, you must, you must.) 

I will slowly start it, that writing again. But yes, this is also what life is—the failure to visit those you want to see (so plans must be drawn up), satisfaction with your own work (Mondays to Saturdays, this one Sunday the timeless, because momentary respite), and a pile of books after you’ve drank some of the cocoa, the same one your father is always offering you, the one he bought to help his blood pressure; and then there is this constant typing, where your fingers know how to find the keys, by memory, without your ever having to look.