Impulsive, yes, Impulsive, but not really

...reading this book, and I admit again and again, that there is something lacking in my understanding such that I don't always recognize or appreciate satire. I confess to you that I did not enjoy that book, what was it called? The one that Walker Percy wrote the introduction to, which was supposed to be this great comic novel...The name that would not come to me, but his book, Percy's, which was sitting on my shelf, if only I would to to it and open its contents.

I will be writing in fragments, things better relegated to the pages of my own journal than published on the web for anyone to see. Because writing carefully and consciously is too difficult, and this stand-still I have been facing must be remedied. I have called this thing a journal after all.

A Confederacy of Dunces, and I read it but didn't understand what all the fuss was about, or why it was supposed to be humorous to listen to some man's pompous negativities and odd adventures. And clearly I didn't get it the way others had. What was lacking?

I remember that line from Good Neighbors, when Margot, realizing that she has not sense of humor whatsover asks..."Someone please tell me...why is it funny?" Margot, oh Margot, sometimes I want to ask the very same question. What is it in this novel that I am entirely missing?

And you may think that I'm asking this rhetorically, or mocking somehow, but really it is a sincere question...this world being so bewildering at times and I just don't get it.

...listening to the sounds of the dishwasher, running in the other room, and the children flying about the house while I sit behind my closed door. It is morning, and my husband is caring for the children while I sit here reading and thinking and avoiding writing, only I can avoid it no longer. It is time to break out of this aimlessness.

Only the writing now must be aimless, but maybe it will speak to someone. Maybe you needed to read this this morning, or maybe I needed only to write it... It's like a puff of air from one of those air canisters.  You know, the kind you use to clear your computers keyboard of all the dust, and pet hair, and remnants of the shells of nuts you thoughtlessly consumed while watching TV.

I haven't done enough of this drifting, and sometimes drifting is entirely necessary. And why must I subject anyone to this? I don't know, but somehow I must.

Reading Wayne Booth and I don't get it. Sometimes I do, but this morning I do not.

A tangle. I can live with a tangle. A jumble may eventually release your creativity. Or constrain it. I haven't decided which.

Impulsive. Yes, impulsive, but not really.

Really it is under control, and I am merely blowing out the dust.

And I can hear the water in the pipes behind me, making noises because the dishwasher has emptied itself of water...