exercises in paragraphs

I finally finished Rabbit, Run. And because i pitied Mr angstrom (rabbit), Rabbit, Redux is now punishing. But Updike's prose challenges me, tires me. How does he do it? His genius, his depiction so real - so true, exceedingly and overflowing in talent, while meanwhile, I feel as if I am losing the ability to spell and forgetting the meaning of words.. Very old people who can hardly walk, dumb men with loud conservatively wrong or false opinions, a dying aunt, and hunchbacks remind me how we may all end up. So at 12.15 i forced myself to write a couple of paragraph, forgive me if they unfortunately remind you of smut. Updike is not Chicken Soup for the Soul.

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Jerry stands back and is amazed to see Grace, who exhales a certain glow in her youthful smile, sigh with an experienced eighty year old thoughtfulness. As if she has vast knowledge to conceal in humility. And now, she walks down the corridor with a conscious amble.

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Fantasy is the world. In other life only the lewdest and smuttiest things grasp him that way. His now strange left hand gropes number one then the other putting pressure on the prostate; half-imagining, the video on the computer plays the unrealness that he half-disbelieves; half delusional, which consciousness scrape at him slowly. In his mind he is talking to the women as if they are real. They are all Melissa now complicit in her deception whispering to him her filthiness.

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Steven is home when she comes back from exercises with the girls.  The small three room flat has that linger of a hesitant flagrance; it must be Myrtle, her favorite scent; a candle has been lit on the kitchen table and another on the cabinet top where he has been preparing a dish. Janice calls, "Steven!". Though it is a small flat so that his typing away in the night in the kitchen may be heard in their room, Steven does not answer. Astounding how secretive men become when romantic.

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It is still too early to meet Jared. He drives up and back through BL road towards BG, towards the ugly temple welcoming all; through the dull morning, of rows of shops selling food, furniture and confectionery, of slow joggers and of young people learning how to drive for the first time; turning left past home through the big roads and reaching the empty expressway; green signboards with white words directing him to the rigid dullness of elsewhere, to J where he did his college, C or BV towards where he did his degree, H and C where his ex-girlfriend stays, or straight ahead to the city where he works. Too much of the same sorts of aspirations; that is our craziness, and it is rotten, this need to achieve according to this dull society, to be like candy canes in a christmas jar.

45 minutes - four paragraphs, at this rate, i am never going to write.