Finished District and Circle. Poetry is kind of like wine, which in turn is like every other easily elitist affection: you can dismiss it as above you, inane, or requiring great amounts of effort on your part. But when you stumble upon the one book or wine that you like, you immediately acquire the ability to appreciate the broader category of experiences it belongs to, and when someone tells you what you should appreciate, very often a bad experience will foul the entire thing (high school english classes). I never got poetry, but I get Seamus Heaney. His poems tap into a feeling of nostalgia for things that you've never experienced and his words rush through your mind in an almost song-like cadence. He's about quiet moments and appreciation of the present, childhood memories and the breath of the seasons.
Next on the list: Spiderman Noir.
[Just wanted to remind you that this blog isn't about me making sense nor me not making an ass of myself. It's to get all this crap out of my head, so I apologize if the last paragraph was too self-indulgent. But this entire blog is self-indulgent, so I guess we're even.]
Sketch!
I don't know, something about outward refinement and inward savagery? No, probably not. Meh.
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