PublicBookshelf Book Club
Weekly tips on great novels to read.
I find my life governed by habits of late, collections of remembered little functions performed with brainless automation; it's Monday, do a wash; Sunday, go to church; bedtime, brush your teeth. Perhaps these movements are dictated by the basic order of my existence; everything in its place. Routine; it's like the Dewey decimal system of the library of my life. Habit is beginning to play a part in my recordings in this journal as well. While I commenced this chore to appease the solicitations of a well-meaning priest, I find myself adding words not so much as an annoying task as an automatic weekly function, filed on Friday nights.
It is the Friday of Labor day weekend and Mr. Anderson and I have just finished our second Friday get together. While I approached the evening with far less trepidation than last week, I now sit in my sofa-nest feeling very melancholy. There is no reason for it; our evening was quite pleasant. Our outing mirrored last week, dinner and a movie and some casual conversation. In fact, my mood has nothing to do with Mr. Anderson, though my seeing him seems to have brought it to light. Old memories, few of them pleasant, are beginning to claw their way up from the cellars of my yesterdays.
I suppose most people endure swings of mood and temperament, often unobserved except by those closest to them. Those of us who choose to live a solitary existence must abide them alone, like the tide on some desert island, as tumultuous as in a populated area, but witnessed by no one.