Bookish, Yet Wacky. Wacky, Yet Bookish.

I was just out front milking the garden, for I hate to throw away empty soy milk cartons if there are any usably loose droplets of milky refreshment and so I always make certain to shake the carton out fully on earth’s soil before I toss it away to remain mummified for centuries below the surfaces of our footfalls in some ghastly landfill’s stomach, when I thought, I must look odd to passer-bys sometimes but there really is some semblance of sanity belying the existential modes of my wacky actions. Wacktions. Small fractions of wacktions. Etcetera (in its unabbreviated version, did you notice?).

Nonetheless, I am also somewhat of a bookish person. I can relate to the lifestyles of certain other bookish writers like Virginia Woolf, A. A. Milne, Stevie Smith and Emily Dickinson, as I image they’d potter about their libraries, admiring the materialistic aspects of their collection, and then get reading and then achieve sparkling artistic inspiration. I love books. They are one of my very, very favourite things.

I love what’s in them, whole worlds and inner journeys, and a lovely aroma wafting off the physical pages. You meet great friends in books, and they don’t think you are strange for enjoying to sniff the pages of books in public places, sometimes even around children. Yet it’s a weird relationship you share; a papery connection where you get to know the author but they don’t get to know you - until, perhaps, at death. I think that one actually connects more with the characters of books, like Winnie-The-Pooh, Jay Gatsby, Boswell’s Samuel Johnson LL. D., and fascinating cohorts, than with their authors. Nonetheless, that still makes two great connective opportunities to help you to not feel so lonely in your confusion about the world.

Another one is, of course, with other actual human beings; people like Bob what ya hang out wif at da boozer. Or sweet, curvaceous Miriam who likes to get naked and together.

…Yes, yes, I said this post was gonna be about Shantoo’s Birthday Festivus, which wasn’t all laughter and success, but I appeared to have misled you, even as I misled my own grey brain-box device that you can’t smash with aeroplanes, other than by physical piloting on into my physical body. The post relaying information pertinent to Shantoo’s Birthday Festivus shall be the next post after this one. I posit.