Connecting the Dots

We've all talked a good deal about the dots which represent important things and about the space between those dots. Eliot is artistic when illuminating these dots and the space between them because he illustrates them in a way which requires us first to make the leap of understanding before truly "knowing" what he tells us. It's all very lovely but it can be somewhat difficult in execution when we examine our own lives. Well, I've done quite a bit of thinking about my college experience (yes, that post we were supposed to blog about almost a month ago) and I understand something about it which has made me feel rather odd.

I inhale books like no one else I've ever met. I can read 16 hours a day for a week (or more) when I'm into them. You name the genre and, if I'm interested, it's all but finished. Popular fiction, especially in the form of a nice big series, stands no chance. As an example, I sunk my fangs into that nice big vampire series by Charlaine Harris during the holiday break and toasted 9 books in 5 1/5 days. Now I've never driven to another city for the sole purpose of visiting a book store as Ronald describes but I'd guess that's because I'm more than willing to reread my favorite books of which I frequently have several copies. Thrift stores provide me with my 50 cent compulsion book-buys. It's basically a fix.

I've never been keen on my text books while in class. 6 months to a year later, oh hell yeah I love them. While there is the occasional text I enjoy immensely in class, these are the overwhelming minority. It's strange that I tend to enjoy these books long after class is concluded and then give them my first serious read. I've noticed a pattern.

I never give these books a serious read until I'm temporarily away from classes. It takes a holiday break for me to browse my book, shelf and pick up a read which I feel has no present bearing for me. Without pressure, either academic or self imposed, I can read an enjoy. Yet each one of these books on my book shelf arrived there for a reason and remains on my bookshelf for a reason. The very purpose these books have held for my professors is something I've denied subconsciously applying to the reading until it no longer felt valid. I simply want to open the cover to Virginia Woolfs 'To The Lighthouse' for myself, in my own time, and not when I am expected to dissect deep and powerful thoughts from the writing for examination in the classroom microscope. This is the THIRD class I've had 'To The Lighthouse' as a text and I have yet to read the book deeply and introspectively. I skimmed it the other times for bare necessities.

I feel a sort of smothering feeling when trying to discuss books in class. Maybe it's selfish, but I want to have more than 20 or 30 seconds of Q and A with whoever is teaching the class. I feel like being that student who sits near the front and takes up half the class time with reiterating the same opinion until the students in the back of the class are giggling. Remember those annoying students? They always seemed to be present in the lower level English classes but not in the upper division ones. I guess I just want to be greedy and bogart the discussion for my own purposes. Invariably, shutting up and listening proves to be at least almost as interesting (and sometimes more so) than yacking up a storm. I'd say there's a switch inside my head and the default position is ON. With everything in my life from playing with my evil cat to reading to traveling to cooking (and everything else including all the spaces in between) I'm thinking critically. Except for when I'm in a classroom full of students and my ability to give input is set to a minimal level. I feel like that pushes my critical thinking switch to the "OFF" position. I guess that's where the smothered feeling comes into play.

I think there's a second reason behind my hesitation to read text books. I have a hard enough time getting through the day on campus and off campus being who I am. I don't listen the way most other people do and I don't seem to think the way most other people do either. I'm concerned about different things. I do different things. In a town of diverse backgrounds, I don't feel as though I fit in at all (the beard is mostly a camouflage mechanism). Walking around with my critical thinking switch in the default ON position is already uncomfortable. Fully embracing the critical thinking necessary to do the many text books which deserve it justice is doubly frustrating. It's as if the volume of thinking (both quantity and quality) in my head is turned up on high and, coupled with the default ON switch, it makes it much harder for me to have a normal conversation. Someone wants to tell me about some normal common thing they did earlier that day and I'm thinking about the connection between epiphanies experienced and epiphanies caused. I'll make some comment and then my friend looks at me like I'm an alien but they're going to forgive me for my strangeness anyway. I can't tell you how many times I've experienced this.

This really sucks. I understand why people become hermits. The life of a recluse is becoming more and more appealing to me. Some of it might be ego but mostly I think this is just brutal honesty; the thoughts that go through my head during my idle down time (like showering) seem to be more complex and more interesting than anything most of my friends have ever shared with me. Every text book I read closely takes me further and further away from reality as experienced by my friends. While I'm kind of resentful of this, the only possible solution would be to stop reading and that's not possible. I'm completely and totally addicted to reading. This is a vicious circle and, rather than spiraling regularly around, I think my circle is spiraling ever closer into a center. My circle is building critical mass.

I might turn into one of those crazies you read about in the Chronicle.