I Can Still Lose Myself in a Book—or on a Page

 

Amid all the unpleasantness (a weak word) these days the good news is: I can still lose myself in a book.

Doesn't matter what kind—fiction, nonfiction, poetry, drama, etc. If it's good—if its hooks are sharp—I am snagged, and the writers, like adept fishermen, pull me along behind their boats and, fortunately (so far) release me when they’re done.

Sometimes the fisher is so adept that when his/her hook releases, I yearn to get hooked again by the same person (i.e., a different book). Those of you who venture to this site now and then know that I love to read everything by authors I like.

Doesn’t matter what the genre or subject is (usually): mystery, “serious” fiction, popular science and history (I’m not much for getting into “deep” versions of those subjects—didn’t pay good enough attention in high school and college). I’m a pretty eclectic reader.

Throughout most of my life, these literary addictions were supplements to my life. In those (relatively) carefree days I was teaching, directing plays, writing essays and book reviews for the Cleveland Plain Dealer and Kirkus Reviews. I was researching and writing books, jogging 4-6 miles most every day, being a husband and father, celebrating today (now yesterday, of course) with friends and family ...

But then mortality arrived—I’d thought it hadn’t even known I was here! I was wrong.

Suddenly—and it was relatively suddenly—I could no longer do most of the things I’d long loved. Biking, jogging, going to the health club to exercise, walking over to the coffee shop to visit with friends and do some work, going to films and plays, driving across the country with Joyce in search of literary sites—or to see family and friends. Oh, I learned so much in my mobile days!

About all I can do now is post pictures of those trips on Facebook—and watch with astonishment the advancing time. Yesterday, for example, I posted some pictures of some Walt Whitman sites Joyce and I visited—in 2002. Nearly twenty years ago (for those of you who, like me, are arithmetically challenged)!

But weren’t we there just last week?

Now I don’t drive at all—and don’t go for “rides” with Joyce as I used to—except to medical facilities.

In the last year—this wonderful Covid Year—I have become intolerably dizzy. I never know each morning whether I’m going to move around much at all that day. I know that I will not be taking a walk: Even on my best days that is impossible.

All kinds of doctors have looked at my situation—scans and blood tests galore. No answer. I want to say “No answer yet,” but I’m really not sure if yet is applicable.

But there are aspects of my life that I continue to love, aspects that keep me (usually) sane. Joyce is the principal reason I’m still here. Without her help every day I could not be living at home. We laugh all the time, talk about books we’re reading, end the day with an hour of streaming bits of shows we like.

And, of course, some fine friends, family members, and hope (the thing with feathers).

But also—and so important—readin’ and writing’. I’m still reading about 100 pages a day (portions of about a half-dozen books), still discovering new writers I love, still learning so much from them. (I read on Kindle and on “real” pages.)

I still write, too—trying to keep this blog going, sending silly poems to my son and his family every day, writing a sestina for Joyce every day (well over 300 of them now!). I don’t post much of my verse on Facebook anymore—just older  pieces from my more agile, energetic days.

Oh, and I still love to nap (I take one in the morning, one in the afternoon). When I’m asleep, I almost invariably transform into my more youthful, energetic self and, in the haze of those dreams, still believe I will always be that boy sprinting for third, sliding (safe!), always be that man playing tennis early in the morning, then teaching all day, directing plays afterward, going home to my wife and son ... oh, was that life fun!