So I never really got around to cracking open a paperback, but I opted to continue on with the e-book offerings I had at my disposal. Which means I just finished Robert Louis Stevenson's Treasure Island. I guess I can see why it's popular among young readers, as it's very straightforward and exciting in a way that I can see little boys dreaming about.
It's written in the traditional adventure format - though, it could very well be one of the first in its kind so maybe it wasn't traditional then. Regardless, it's read in just a way one might tell a story around a campfire; with a solid plot, antagonist/protagonist, and well-rounded end. If only life were actually so, to have a goal so clearly defined that one hopes to attain. I'm basically just sitting stagnantly in the middle of the sea without the fear of starving - which makes me less apt to struggle for whatever I'm supposed to be struggling for. Apathetic suffering.
I have been doing a little bit of adventuring myself the past month. Nothing involving plunder and murder, but I did get to visit a friend in Madison, WI who I hold very dear to my heart. Madison is a very pleasant place, and we spent the weekend drinking like pirates (though not rum) and traveling about on bicycles.
I have also spent this last week revisiting my love for Woody Allen films. I'm convinced I'm living the life of one of his neurotic characters, in a world of second-guessing and anxiety. And I'm not saying that because I want to be a pretentious cool kid...I'd rather be a shallow obliviously happy person. To be comparable to Mr. Allen brings a little bit of sadness to my heart. Rain cloud Minami, as my coworker says. (Here, I tried to write a heart emoticon, but apparently that fucks with the html, so I will just say...*heart*)
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