Idylls and the Internet

It's really true: we've come to a point where reading overwhelms writing, since there's so much to read, and most of us--trying our very best to sift this pile of information we're getting in the best way possible--couldn't help but say, hey, I should read this later.

That later evaporates into your browser tabs, every now and then. By the time most browsers solved the nuisance in opening and closing browser windows by converting them into little tabs (which are, come to think of it, miniaturization at its finest), setting aside must-reads are so much easier. (Safari currently has its own Reading List function.)

Now I've been garnering a lot of browser tabs (ranging from Omniv... Binder... Amatria... Los Sec... etc.) and they still are a nuisance. I guess they didn't solve the problem in essence. My Google Reader's unread: 800+ (from April 26, I think). Compared with what I've read in my room in Bulacan, I wouldn't wonder wonder why I haven't read that much lately. My list is embarrassing:

1. That wonderful introduction of Barthelme's Sixty Stories by David Gates
2. Some seven pages of Ashbery's Flow Chart (my nth rereading, though the poem never fails to conjure something new--such wonders of poetry) at the bus
3. An introduction in J.P. Donleavy's The Ginger Man
4. Two chapters of Miguel Syjuco's Ilustrado
5. A broadsheet copy of The Onion from St. Mark's Bookshop

There are reasons. The bulk of what I'm reading lately is online. The graduation gift I received--a modest iPod Touch 8GB--is becoming more of a bane. (Yes! After my six-year affair with an iPod Shuffle!) What more: I've made up my mind in getting an Internet subscription when I get home to Bulacan this last week of May. (Our last Internet subscription was seven years ago, when WiFi was still a subject of daydreams in the household.)

The online landscape has proven to delay reading the necessaries: a simple click and you're on Facebook; a link here and there and you wouldn't know you've been drifting away from the subject at hand (most of which are off-topic). I've written nothing aside from my 100th post, which, by the way, is a cheat!

Perhaps I couldn't really write in a city like New York. There's too much of everything--from subway grime to obnoxious jaywalkers--that one needs a retreat (look at this guy). I couldn't see my five-week stay a vacation. Though, sure, I've rekindled with my mother and my sisters and my niece and everyone else, I still ache for that solitude of not giving a fuck about anything and do my rituals of eat, drink, and read some stuff I could only do in Bulacan. The days are becoming slimmer as that necessity of employment looms, and though my sister said something about having a good time for a couple of months before getting a job, I can still hear the ticking--of what, I don't know, but I better put my time in reading a lot of stuff.