The Path in the Forest
The unexplained anxiety is still here. Books help a little. I'd spend all day reading in bed if I could, so maybe it's good that I can't. But after the boys go to bed, I have a solid hour or two in which to read with abandon.
I'm on my second Maggie Nelson book, The Red Parts: Autobiography of a Trial. It's a sequel, of sorts, to Jane: A Murder. In it Nelson writes:
"Conventional wisdom has it that we dredge up family stories to find out more about ourselves, to pursue that all important goal of 'self-knowledge,' to catapult ourselves, like Oedipus, down the track that leads to the revelation of some original crime, some original truth. Then we gouge our eyes out in shame, run screaming into the wilderness, and plagues cease to rain down upon our people. Fewer people talk about what happens when this track begins to dissolve, when the path starts to become indistinguishable from the forest."