104

that's how many pages into The Fermata i am. and all the things i found somewhat enjoyable about this book are slowly turning into points of annoyance.

a co-worker saw me with the book yesterday and inquired about it cause he liked the title and thought maybe it was one of those books that is chock full of life-altering profundity. when i told him that it's basically about this guy who has the ability to stop time and move about in the paused world to undress women and otherwise act out his sexual and non-sexual fantasies, he was really disappointed. disappointed because with a title like The Fermata you would hope that it had more to offer than playfully penned semi-erotic ramblings and escapades.

and so it started me thinking, "this book is disappointing." and i've become more aware of my reluctance to spend time with it. i bring it to work and it sits there on my desk for hours at a time, untouched and neglected. it occupies the passenger seat in my car when i take it back home; like a hitchhiker i pity but who i refuse to make small talk with.

but maybe i'm looking at this work too critically. or not accepting it for what it's able to share. because it's not really the story that's so entertaining as it is the subtlety of the text. the music of the language is what's important here. and so each repetition of libidinous experience serves to hold baker's masturbatory language in an indefinite sustain. yes, that should be what the fermata really represents.

so now i can go to 105 and beyond, happy in the knowledge that what i'm doing is more like sight-singing to an unfamiliar song than mere reading. and so the pleasure comes from hearing where the melody is taking me and not how the song impacts my life.