Folding; Or, Now as I have a taste for reading even torn papers lying in the street...
There's a sense for me in which reading DQ is like making a cake or maybe it's more like watching someone else make a cake. There's an interesting parallel too because recently I felt dissatisfied with the linearity of the blog form and I talked to someone about "folding the blog" not as in a card game but as in making a cake. Then, things that were said before or comments on earlier threads/postings could be stirred up from the past, from the bottom, from the scroll-down, from the archives and mixed-in. A kind of ongoing editorial process as a result of rereading the postings about reading and the comments on the reading about reading...
So how is DQ like this too? Well, right now, Sancho is telling DQ how he is being "read" by the village. Once Sancho recites his honest list (great madman, social climber, mad but amusing, valiant but unfortunate, well mannered but presumptuous), he lets DQ know that all this is not really noteworthy because he's just learned that DQ's story (including mentions of Sancho, Dulcinea, etc.) is "already in print under the title of The Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote de la Mancha". This is the very book that we/I have already read in Part 1! DQ surmises that the impossibility of such a book being in print when "the blood of the enemies [I] had slain was scarcely dry on [my] sword blade" means that the book must be the work of a "sage enchanter" and DQ's deeds given "to the Press by magic art". He insists on confirmation and Sancho dutifully goes off to bring back the man who told him about the book.
Once again, we're/I'm caught up in a web of enchantment engendered by reading (would D&G call it a fibre of enchantment? Would they also say that what happens next is the really crucial thing?). DQ is enchanted by his books of knight errantry and we/I are/am enchanted by the books of DQ's knight errantry. Who is our/my sage enchanter? How do we/I behave?
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The other night I was deciding whether or not to venture out into the rain and walk a couple of miles to buy some nail polish for Ridley. He has a thumb nail that he uses to pluck the bass guitar, and thus the nail is filed in the shape of Gumby's head. So I thought it would be a good idea to get Ridley some green nail polish so he could have a Thumby. While hemming and hawing about the deterring rain, I heard a rant on the co-op radio station that reinforced the idea of boys in nail polish, so I took it as a Go sign and ventured out. On the way back I noticed a soaked letter on the sidewalk with an address in Ireland written clearly on the back. I leaned over and read the address, thought about my friend who'd just left for Ireland, and stopped myself from picking up the letter from its place. But I know that I could get on a roll with signs and coincidences. It's like skateboarding through the city. A rhythm of words and references are an available way of being in public like a cognitive Ipod. Some of my friends seem to be inside this rhythm...
I didn't resist that impulse once and read a letter that I found lying on the street. I really regretted reading it because it was a poignant plea from a guy in jail asking his ex for permission to see his kids. I felt I had intruded totally into someone's intimate private life. It was an awful experience.
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