(And I don’t mean the poetickal kind.)
There’s a kind of reading that doesn’t do much. A kind of reading where the words sort of ping pong around as they whoosh past. Popping like popcorn kernals, tasting oh so good, greasy fingers scooping up great handfuls with much gusto, but later, maybe not feeling so hot, bellywise. Also, with that saltiness caught at the corners of the mouth and oh-so-thirsty. Pretty sure this isn’t the ever-present Now that they were talking about. Instead, it’s a kind of Red Queen’s race chasing after the ever-wasn’t Then. As fast as you go, you can never eat them all. All the words, I mean, reading. We’ve never created more words ever in the history of everything in such a short span of time and what do we have to say for ourselves? Tappity tappity tap. So much typing. I know my handwriting’s gotten worse. Sometimes, I’ll slow down and read a thing, but my attention wanders, thinking of fast words, no doubt. And then I drag it back to focus on that slower reading, searching for that flow, that rhythm, where large chunks of pages just whoosh by, but in a slow, satisfying way, like a whale gliding by. Or sometimes, slowing almost all the way to a stop, to read just a few sentences of a thing someone clearly labored over for hours. Yeah, I know how much effort it can take to write something well. I also know the joy of typing something out FAST while the thinking trails along behind, those too short legs playing catch up, all the while, only to end up right where you started. Or have you?