Metamorphosis

I recently finished reading Kafka's Metamorphosis (and his shorter story The Judgement). Yes, characteristically it took me an irrationally long time to finish what is a very short and pretty easy book to read.

I liked it. I didn't love it. But I was delighted that Kafka could pen a tale that made me empathise with a giant cockroach. But I'm sure most people would be concerned for the plight of a human that wakes up in his own home as a grotesque giant insect; it could happen to any of us!

I do like the seemingly unresolvable predicaments that Kafka creates, that rightly earn the adjective 'Kafka-esque'. I saw The Trial a couple of years ago at the Malthouse Theatre and although I'm an underappreciator of theatre, I really enjoyed the absurd, trapped-by-the-establishment world the main character is powerless to escape from.

Anyway, I'm attempting my own metamorphosis at the moment. I've started jogging. This is revolutionary. I've only walk-jogged twice this week, but I enjoyed it. Today I was intending to run again but am currently hiding in bed, away from Melbourne's miserably cold day.

This quest towards personal metamorphosis has been motivated by the realisation that I'm aging; losing my looks; and don't yet have a delightful male companion in my life who loves me regardless. Further, I met a splendid and sexy chap a few weeks ago, who I perceived as perhaps being a little 'out of my league'. This probably isn't and shouldn't be the case, but it was a good kick up my sagging arse - to try to get fit for the first time in my life. You'd be correct in thinking I've already strayed off course, if you could see me now, prone in bed with my puffy allergic face popping out from under the doona.

I truly would like to hook up with a man of my dreams in the not too distant future. I'm ready to begin a lifelong companionship. I don't want my dirty-thirties to pass without maxing-out their bedroom potential. I do sometimes wonder what's wrong with me, but not often, and not to the degree that it gets me down. Having a raunchy liaison with that splendid chap a few weeks ago was in some ways a good confidence boost, but I've been questioning whether he just saw me as ripe for the picking. A slut-on-demand. That night I was uncharacteristically promiscuous and I truly hope that doesn't mean I've sabotaged a future crossing of paths. For the moment I'm not pursuing further contact with him, I know he's just unravelling himself from a relationship. He's special and I would like and hope that a reconnection happens at some point without me needing to be particularly proactive about it. I should state that I don't even really know him yet, but he seems and feels mighty nice.

This morning I've just started reading The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, expect another blog post from me in less than 6 weeks. But don't be surprised if you don't get one. I believe it's written for young adults, which suits my attention-span just fine. I also like the simple non-emotive language used by the main character with Aspergers. Perhaps if I get through this book in a timely fashion it will reactivate my reading habit. Would be good for me to be able to read (like the literate and interested person I like to think I am) by the time I re-cross paths with that splendid chap. He's a writer.

Crossing everything.