Wordling
Round and round the rumours go. "Fake, stuck up." And apparantly I'm only ever friends with beautiful people. They snowball me out of every city I live in. In the dark moments I wonder if they're right.
Imagine if we could live on words. Instead of eating a meal, you read a meal, the butter soaking through the crunchy skin and soft fluff of baked potatoes, the sweetish crunch and tang of cauliflower drenched in cheese sauce, served non serif, black type.
This has always been a problem for me. Reading about things satisfies me more than actually doing them. As a child, my terminally grumpy father hated it, he wanted me to do. Do, do, do. But why should I join a sports team when I could be a wonder athlete, effortlessly talented, exercise-free, simply by opening a book? He banned the books. I'd flop listlessly around, reading the back of cereal packets and moisturizer tubes, until he'd finally relent. Nothing has changed, I still live dangerously, at arms length.
One day I'm going to punch the air and feel a ripping, tearing of paper. And my fist will have broken through the page of this book I'm in. Out... out, into real life. Or maybe vice versa.
Imagine if we could live on words. Instead of eating a meal, you read a meal, the butter soaking through the crunchy skin and soft fluff of baked potatoes, the sweetish crunch and tang of cauliflower drenched in cheese sauce, served non serif, black type.
This has always been a problem for me. Reading about things satisfies me more than actually doing them. As a child, my terminally grumpy father hated it, he wanted me to do. Do, do, do. But why should I join a sports team when I could be a wonder athlete, effortlessly talented, exercise-free, simply by opening a book? He banned the books. I'd flop listlessly around, reading the back of cereal packets and moisturizer tubes, until he'd finally relent. Nothing has changed, I still live dangerously, at arms length.
One day I'm going to punch the air and feel a ripping, tearing of paper. And my fist will have broken through the page of this book I'm in. Out... out, into real life. Or maybe vice versa.
posted by tui at 10:17 PM
6 Comments:
I think you have a great outlook on reading. That's terrible that your dad tried to repress that. My 15 year old daughter has read since she was 3. I always told her that it was a great way to get out of yourself if you get down or happy. You can pretend to be a character in the book or be in the location that the character is in and nobody can make fun of you for it. You can see what happens when other people make bad choices that you would never have the courage to do on your own and you get to feel the pain of another without going through it. Reading is one of the best releases known to man.
i don't think i've ever been one to favour reading over experience, but a father acting like that seems more than a little disturbed. anyway, i guess you got the bug to experience some things, eventually. that's obvious.
Tui - you are a gifted writer. Start capturing your life in a book...and get it published.
You truely are a gifted person.
Loxley.
Glad you have such a taste for reading. I don't know what I'd have done if books were banned to me; they kept me going through so many things.
'Insideout' a distinctly North American term I believe..in any case or should I say 'in my case,' the inside looking out or outside looking in thing is in dire need of drastic reorganization.
Or so I think sometimes..or perhaps the problem is right there plain as day..that I think at all.
What would we be without books.
your love of reading shows in your hand turn of phrase:
"...the butter soaking through the crunchy skin and soft fluff of baked potatoes, the sweetish crunch and tang of cauliflower drenched in cheese sauce, served non serif, black type. "
forgive me if i quote you to you, but that's exquisite.
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