Nova Reads Proust vol.1 sleeping and name dropping

Now, begins Despair Banishing Project #1.

For the longest time, when I lay down at night I think of instances in books and movies when the characters sleep and I pretend to be them. I'm Katniss strapped to a tree, Kevin McCallister in an opera house storage room, I'm held hostage in South America sleeping on a grand living room floor. Whatever happens to my Proust project, at least I have a new sleep story to add to my collection.

In the beginning, a young boy (proust?) tells us about going to sleep. Its goodness when it is easy, and the scary way it can allude you. Winter bedrooms, summer bedrooms. Falling asleep in the late afternoon light before your very late dinner. About how your mother comes to you or doesn't come to you and the way you hold back your plea for love. Because that can make the whole thing go away, can't it? In the first 25 pages, with lots of words and very few periods, we hear a lot about saying goodnight.

(We also meet M.Swann and there is a lot of French name dropping that was a little lost on me.)

But despite this and the very unsure ground I stand on regarding what this book is about, I've buried my rundown brain into its pages and have been thankful for getting lost in all the beautiful words.

I reveal despair banishing projects, # 1

I have fallen into a despair with my current career as a reader. I've been reading some books. But I don't feel like a reader right now. A reader reads every day. And writes about what she reads. And drives everyone nuts with what she's been reading. That's what a reader does.

I have three projects I am currently working on to fix all that.

Project Number One: Nova Reads Proust

I've been a book gobbler. I need to slow down. I need to trudge. I want to read each word with no thought of the future. I need to read Proust. I have a copy of Swann's Way (it was a gift). And I have tried to read it, but oh my, it is Proust. and I am an idiot.

But I have read To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf, I can do this. I can read the words and see what happens. I can go in search of lost time. But, here's the thing...this is the project. I'm going to write about it as I'm reading it. I like to finish a book, do some research and then write. Especially with smart books. But no, this is the Nova reads Proust in her underwear project. I know that I will misunderstand stuff. I will reveal my stupidity. But in the end, we will know exactly what it looks like when Nova Reads Proust.

Project two and three will be revealed when I figure them out. But I want you to know that I am ready to go full on Julie/Julia. Hint Hint! This life is going to be exciting and amazing* to me. Despair Be Gone!

*these are new words Ramona has been throwing around. Mama, it's amazing!

love note - so much space

I need space. Room to love and pine, to sit. Room to grow and shrink, space to double over.

To change everything. To start over, again.

See it? This love with elastic, this love made of giving and letting go? We are seeing not a marriage, not something sealed with commitment. but a sky.

I don't know what you married, I don't even know what I married, but in the years that follow I feel his space rolling out, rolling out over the years. a sky. I married the sky.

Happy Valentine's Day, World. Love it up.

look! notice! there it IS!

I lack faith. The wind blows, and I'm looking around for a savior.

I wrote a note for my pocket:

The problem is I need someone to pray to right now.

I wish I could borrow yours.

Brian and I were having a bicker. Fighting bitterly over something momentarily really important, next moment non-existent.

Ramona interrupts, babbling sweetly, "mama, mama, look Buddha".

No kidding. She points to the Buddha on my bedside table and draws my attention to it.

Sheesh, girl, I get it.

something different,something wonderful

I'm not quite downhearted, for I've been much worse. Even last year, I was worse. Last year was indeed harder. But I'm hating everything these days. Things aren't quite right at work. I have all these ideas, but I'm so fuzzy I can't settle down and focus.

Mothering right now is like watching birds hatch from a nest, like seeing a new butterfly unflap two wet wings. The girl speaks! She says dear, dear things. She sings a song she invented herself. mama,dada,mama,dada,bop,bop,bop!

Yet, I am like a person who has eaten too much of one thing and needs another. Something wonderful, something different. I need perhaps a rock, a sunny one, and a case of wine. To drink with a best friend. To drink with my best friend.

To feel different than I do now, because I am only ambiguous. To write and write, but to not know where to put it. I dream a big dream for myself. I imagine to create something wonderful. But then I step right back, re-think, re-think, re-worry, edit. Edit it down, down to the point of not happening.

So, I'm going to get out of the head. And just write a little more. More doing, less worrying. And I know this feeling is just a whole lot of February. And it's not here to stay.