what to do with books

A lady came to play with me while I read in the park. Later I went downtown with Paul, Rachel and Jillian. We sung Sweeney Todd. It amazes me, the smell of Paul's car.

"A smell can bring on a flood of memories, influence people's moods and even affect their work performance. Because the olfactory bulb is part of the brain's limbic system, an area so closely associated with memory and feeling it's sometimes called the "emotional brain," smell can call up memories and powerful responses almost instantaneously."

Recently, I've been so pleased with the way my nose has been linked with my memory. Things like coworkers colognes reminding me of intoxicated evenings in the winter, it's intriguing. I've been thinking a lot about memory in general actually, recently, and frequently. I don't know how to feel about it, both mentally and physically. I don't know how to explain this using advanced terminologies, nor equations, so I'll try to describe a reoccurring experience. Throughout the summer, I'm waking up, making breakfast, getting together with friends, then at the end of each day, on the way home or soon after I get into bed, I think to myself that this day will never happen again. The events could be the same, well, similar, but even still, it's not quite the same. It'd be a recreation. I take these days, and I remember them, and I blog them, and write about them. But then what? Is there anything I can physically do with these days, aside from turning them into internet blogs, or moreover, inspirations? For works of art, for poems. I'd like to compare this feeling to the sense of "finishing" a book, especially when the curriculum is faded and essentially non existent; outside of school hours. When I finish a book, I'm so used to analyzing it and researching about it, basically ripping the fucker to shreds, for this goal of an eighty. Now that school's over, I've finished a book, but now what? I thought I could read up on the theories behind the novel, other opinions, general information about the piece of writing. I did a little, but not enough to consider it actual, in depth researching. Is this what you're supposed to do when you finish a book though? Can't you just finish it, smile, perhaps start another? (Rachel). Is reading more about the experience than the content? The waking up early to your teas and muffins, crunched into a chair with your baggy socks and stuff? Is it about this serene feeling of contentment that makes you want to cry one tear and rip a piece of paper down the middle? Who knows! I do know that I'm about to enter a place where I'm going to be expected to analyze and comment on several pieces of literature, which I do hope to get better at, but I'd like to keep in mind the experience aspect of reading and digesting literature. You can read in the whitest of rooms, or you can go outside to the park and discover that books are fuzzy, and you can underline sentences that make you think and connect with. You can feel a sense of company from the critters that enter your book. You can accidentally, or subconsciously bring him or her home with you, only to be knocked out of your clothing onto the floor in your bedroom, to keep them there on a kleenex on your desk for unknown reasons. This is a true story.