One thing about getting an amazing review of my book in the New York Times is that it made the rest of the week seem kind of bland or tiresome by comparison, or at least all of those other things that are not immediately related to the review, such as taking the (broken) subway system to work or stepping in puddles or getting cat hair up my nose, and so on.
Another thing is that I couldn’t stop eating (junk food) for some reason, namely that I’m probably undoubtedly addicted to sugar and since let’s face it getting a review in The Times is not exactly going to happen everyday and in fact is most likely a once-in-a-lifetime event, my dumb body (which doesn’t understand that fact) is like, ‘whatever, just give me the sugar and we’ll figure it out later.’ Which I suppose could be worse: I could be addicted to __ or ___.
As time passes, though, I’ve adjusted; I’m starting to sleep again and appreciate the small things; the way the cats curl up and snuggle against my leg or the great new Italian restaurant that just opened a few blocks away, the slow but steady transformation of our house as it undergoes the final stages of its renovation.
And of course there’s the sun, which after the solstice is now slowly beginning its trip north along the banks of the Hudson.
There’s pleasure to be found in its beauty and its ambivalence, the certainty of its existence completely outside of anyone’s interference.
