I continually feel like I’ve won the lottery. Yes, I actually have won some significant prizes in my lifetime, money, a car, jewelry and more. Not bad, right? But it’s more than that. Especially with art. Sometimes, I read a book and I’m like, “Is everyone getting how amazing this is? Can you believe it? And WE get to read it! And WE get to experience it! And WE…” and on and on. I dove headfirst into Bradbury recently and I’m trying to catch air, but I can’t. I just can’t. More and more and more, I say! Every morning as I sit in the quiet of the sunrise and every evening with sun’s withdrawal, I read Bradbury. Again at breakfast. Again at lunch. While I’m cleaning. While I’m cooking. Yes, even when I’m in the washroom. Bradbury. Bradbury. Bradbury! It’s like an extended revelation where I’m constantly pinching myself because I’m the stranger at the party. How have I been invited to this? On I must read before I’m kicked out! Had I tiptoed into Bradbury’s world when I was younger, well, I don’t think I would have fared quite so well in school. Bradbury in hand, I’m always keeping watch, always prepared to fend off anything, anything that might yank me away from “The Fog Horn” or that sweet sip of Dandelion Wine or that wicked carousel in the park. Isolation has only made this addiction worse. Through our front window, neighbors see me laughing and cringing or wide-eyed with fright and I want to run out and yell to them, “Bradbury! It’s Bradbury you fools! Go get Bradbury and escape with me!”
So…this is my antidote for the crazy of today’s world. Bradbury. Open a book and escape with me.