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Monday, February 1, 2010

02/01/10

Went to the gym and felt defeated the second I entered the stagnant, sauna-like heat of the place. No matter where I walked, it seemed I was walking into someone else's discarded carbon dioxide. Should have been a chemist; I'd appreciate these things.

On the treadmill, my hamster-like suffering lasted until I got to a mile, and then I decided I'd rather read the Church Dogmatics in one sitting than continue on this limbotic course that took me nowhere. It's a form of psychological torture. Objects hang before you in static entropy as you frenetically adjust the speed of this imbecilic machine. Space and time remain suspended. You feel that Bishop Berkley was correct, and that if you look away it will all vanish faster than a waiter who sees you wince.

Got home, put the meal on the stove and,unawares, offered fragrant incense to Moloch. Eventually, after a sustained clamor of feline hissing accosted me from the general direction of the kitchen, I realized that I should turn the burner down. Luckily, I was able to salvage our food just in time, though a group of naked savages have assembled outside my apartment in ecstatic expectation.

I continue to read the Updike though I can sense it's detrimental to my mental health. Ministers always seem to exude an air of pageantry, and Updike's all-too-believable misanthrope is too much for me at times. Still, the section I just read contained a fascinating parody on miracles. In a sense, the protagonist, Reverend Tom Marshfield, suffers because he can't see faith in anyone else. His whole congregation is a group of impostors keeping up appearances. The closest touch of vitality in his life comes through adultery. Secluded in the shelter of his recovery center from which he writes the confessions that fill the book, I wonder what kind of conclusions this latter-day Augustine will draw.

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