Yup, it's me.

It's been awhile. I'm afraid I occasionally struggle with depression and when I do, the last thing in the world I want is introspection of any variety. Mostly I want escapist fiction, sleep, the occasional glass of wine and affection -- though that can be hard to come by in my family. Silence, peace -- that too would be nice, but again, unlikely.

I'm apparently stuck at around 2700 on the amazon rankings, despite having plowed through approximately six novels this weekend. As always, I wonder how others are able to read less, review less and pile up more votes. Also, I'm curious about a guy who's an 'amazon neighbor' whom I've nicknamed "the eater." apparently the amazon vine people get free stuff and this guy mostly seems to get stuff to eat, which he then reviews. gourmet products, bizarre nutritional foodlike substances and the like. I think he's a bit of a foodie, also reading cookbooks and the like -- but I find myself wondering what the mailman thinks as he stuffs "the eater's" mailbox with these packages. I picture this guy as some kind of weird hermit, never going to the store, just scuttling down to his mailbox, grabbing things to eat and shuffling off to his little apartment. (In my amazon fantasies, none of us have lives beyond books. We're all kind of like nuns or hermits. Or maybe that's just my fantasy. Maybe just this week.)

Anyway, if you're looking for a book that will make you cry, I recommend taking a look at "I see you everywhere," by Julia Glass. Kind of a break from the relentlessly happy chick lit books about PTA moms. This one in contrast suggests that women are actually full-formed, fragile creatures. Not the best read in my present state of mind, but still . .

There are no words . . .

I've begun a new research project, inspired largely by some recent reading I've done for this project. I've been reading "post-apocalyptic fiction" -- with an eye towards exploring what it says about how we visualize america's position in the world at present. In the past few days, I've read: A World made by Hand, Our American President, The Road and the Pesthouse. of course, by far the most haunting of these works is Cormac McCarthy's "The Road", a short, starkly drawn novel about a man and his son who somehow survive a nuclear war which ravages the America we know. The book is both terrifying and hauntingly beautiful, as the man and his son (whose names we never learn) become their own little universe is a world of nuclear winter, where they are chased by bands of marauding cannibals through perpetual darkness. It's impossible to do this work justice -- but it's one of those that changes you.

However, the downside of being on a 'post apocalyptic fiction' tear is that I have been alternately terrified and too depressed to speak. (Hence, when the power went out here the other night due to thunderstorms -- an entirely predictable event which happens a couple times a year when you live near the coast as we do -- I actually went outside and found my husband because I was so afraid. "It's the North Koreans," I said. 'They've bombed us. I'm sure." and at the time, nothing about that statement felt far-fetched.) I'm beginning to think that post-apocalyptic fiction, like disaster movies (another guilty pleasure of mine) is something that should be rationed.

I've moved up to number 2695 on the list, and as I approach the crossing of the 2500 line, I feel myself once again falling prey to that ancient temptation towards self-sabotage. (Who? me? Take myself seriously? Actually achieve something?) Last week, I kind of missed a TV interview, and may have seriously damaged my relations with our university PR lady. I believe I made a simple honest mistake but a psychiatrist might think differently. However, today I forced myself to write two more reviews. (I'm guilty of actually reading a TON of stuff lately, but not having written the reviews. Some academic stuff, and a couple of other post-apocalyptics that I simply haven't been able to organize myself to review.) I think part of it is that I'm in that particular academic limbo that's a bit like childbirth -- kind of pregnant with the next article, but it's still too unassembled and inchoate to actually make it into the light. And terrified also at the thought that it might actually be really good . . .