Sometime I’ll go into a bookstore and I’ll be starved for something good to read. I’ll browse for hours picking up volume, after volume, after volume – carrying around some, discarding others. I like books that suck me in and make me forget where or who I am for just some brief blissful moments. I like original, off the beaten path books, the ones that others would put down as soon as they finished reading the dust covers. I found a book written all in slam poetry form, a story of an Egyptian mistress. It was buried in an outlet stores discounted, discounts. I got it for $1; I consider it my most prized collection next to the first edition Edgar Allen Poe book my uncle bought me when he was in an antique store.
Most of the time after a book binge I come out with way too many books, most of them pebbles instead of gleaming jewels. But it’s the rare moments, the ones where you find a book that makes you gobble it up whole, which makes you glad that writers still write and all books haven’t been uploaded and sold only online. It makes you glad to have the feel of them in your hands as you turn page after adventurous page.
For a year now I’ve been looking for a house, and for a year now people will ask me what I’m most excited about. “I bet you can’t wait to have a yard,” or “An attached garage will sure be nice in the winter,” or “I guess you’re excited not to smell pot through the light sockets at your apartment.”
None of these things excited me. I’m excited to have a house because in my house will be a spare room, a spare room that will be converted into a library. Wall to ceiling shelves crammed full until the shelves buckle in the middle with volume after volume after volume of books. In the middle of the room will be a big plush chair and in it I’ll curl up like a cat, steaming mug of tea in one hand a good book in the other and I will be utterly happy.
CW
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