I hate Philip Roth. I don’t think he’s a genius and I don’t like reading his books. When I heard he was going to be on Fresh Air this afternoon I should have turned the radio off. But I didn’t.
I should have known Roth would be on his pulpit advocating the bleakest kind of atheism that insists on thinking about, no, dwelling on, a non-hereafter that consists solely of worm food.
I can tolerate worm-food talk nine times out of ten, if busy with some other task and not alone. Unluckily, this time it caught me on a Monday off with lots of time on my hands and Drew at work, which made this one of those one times out of ten, where I have a full anxiety attack with the sweating, the hyperventilating, and the charmingly crazy-looking repeating of one phrase over and over again.
A pretty constant diet of good Sunday sermons (good ones) and some choir practice usually keeps these attacks at bay, but lately, I have been unable to face trying to find a good Sunday sermon. In spite of the fact that there are probably 100 churches in this town, I am guessing that good Sunday sermons might be found at 2 of them, and so far, I haven’t had the stomach to find them.
Luckily, I recently checked an Anne Lamott book out of the library, and I grabbed it looking for some relief. So far, I haven’t found that, but it has kept my mind busy.
Don’t worry about me. Just keep the worm-food talk down to a minimum.
Thank you and sleep well.
Next time - less death.