Sometimes books herald reluctance; particularly when I am already consciously thinking over muddled thoughts. Thing is, a ‘good’ book; poetry, novel, essays or something else, will inevitably bring more thought. This is, I suppose, possible to use to one’s advantage should you be swaying towards the dangerously-pondering-too-much, if you were to use books to completely divert your attention – or, at least, divert as far as it seems possible. To select with the prethought purpose of falling into something else, a recluse of exposure to ‘other’ thoughts, other lands, other people, other than here and now and what it really stilletoing across the track of your conscious thought. Conscious and unconscious, actually.
It was not this, though, which made me thrilled to find Jo Shapcott and Selima Hill (both of whom their work I’d previously read on the net, but wanted to hunt out more of) on the shelves of our little local library. In a way, reading whilst being aware of the glitch (that thoughts will bug you, like it or otherwise…) and sort of welcoming this, makes me feel happy. Contented. It is a dialogue, if not a dialogue in the sense of immediate conversation. Sometimes it feels even more private, because it is only between you and your selves, and even when you might try to explain to someone about this ‘dialogue’, they cannot, cannot break into it. Possessive somehow, yes. Maybe in a similar way to why I sometimes do not want someone – say a friend or relative whom I am familiar with – to read what I have just read. Or why I thrust the book upon them, or print the poem out, ensuring they definitely read it.