Possibly get drunk in a sleazy bar.
Getting lost in pages can be another way to
hide from one's own reality. So be it.
Reading is my drug of choice.
I sometimes wonder what a good shrink might
have to say about me after perusing my
reading choices. My choices have changed over
the years. Used to be a lot of self-help titles piled
up by the bed. The past several years have seen
my focus broaden, although I will admit to still
being in search of myself through others.
An example to... emulate? explain? understand?
If nothing else reading is exercise for the brain.
Use it or lose it.
Because I have nothing else to offer at the moment,
here's a list of recent reads. (Too lazy to link so many.)
*Flyboys, A True Story Of Courage (James Bradley)
*Our Town, A Heartland Lynching (Cynthia Carr)
*Lit, A Memoir (Mary Karr)
*The Time Traveler's Wife (Audrey Niffenegger)
*Snow Falling On Cedars (David Guterson)
*John Muir, Apostle of Nature (Thurman Wilkins)
*Jane Goodall, a Biography (Dale Peterson)
*Capote, a Biography (Gerald Clarke)
*Mirror Lake (Thomas Christopher Greene)
*The Mermaid Chair (Sue Monk Kidd)
*(in process) The Help (Kathryn Stockett)
If there are any repeats from past lists, it's because
I sometimes read a book more than once if I like it
a lot. Novel idea (pun intended). I also learn/remember
more when I repeat.
Oh, to have a photographic memory.
No different than watching a good movie more
than once although, I have friends who say,
"What's the point in that?".
My response to that...
"You had good sex once and never went back?"