Recalling the caged pages

I woke up too early - 4:30 - and am now trying to read myself back to sleep. Of course reading is good for more than just a strategy to get back to dreamland. I don't merely read to sleep. I just thought it was a good use of time as I would otherwise have been staring off into the dark wondering when or if I'd fall asleep.

Anyways, with a fresh dusting of April snow outside my Torontocanada window, I am on page 389 and Lyle is explaining to LaMont Chu why fame will never enable him to escape into a world of happiness where he - a tennis star - is featured in magazine photos:

"LaMont, the truth is that the world is incredibly, incredibly, unbelievably old. You suffer with the stunted desire caused by one of it's oldest lies. Do not believe the photographs. Fame is not an exit from any cage."

Cage. Hmm. I was only going to read but I may have to get up and sit infront of my glowing Blogmachine to access my earlier post on "Caged Pages".

The handblogger just isn't handy enough for that kind of searching. Too cumbersome.

So - I am now wondering what inspired me to put those pages in a cage then handblog them.

Was it something that I had already perceived of Dfw's view of the world?

Or was I actually experiencing the reality of that world - actually myself feeling caged: a one-time athlete/dreamer now consigned to an absurd gymteacher job where I am told to lower the bar instead of asking my charges to imagine the infinite; unable to find the time to explore the brilliance of the world, the incandesence of life, just as I - as you will all know - struggle to find the time to read this apparently brilliant Thick Book?

Ah Time. Ah brilliance. Oh cages.

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It's 530.

I won't fall asleep now.

It's taken me about half an hour to handblog a thought about one page of a thousand plus pages of an infinitely long book.

Is this book a cage for me? A cage which ensnares me not with it's mere quantity of pages but more so with its tantilizing complexity - which I obsessively and inescapably need to handblog?

Why can't I just read and be done with this cage of a book? Why do I insist on taking pointless images (just like renowned filmmaker James O. Incandenza?) of pages and then reflecting on their contents?

Why can't I be like all the other Johnnyreaders?

If you're constantly reflecting, can you ever truly live?

Am I ensnared not just by this little handblogger but also by my reflective mind?