Shelf

I began collecting books when I was very young.

 There were always lots of books in my childhood home, and there still are, though they are not generally the kinds of books that I would like to read. That never really mattered though, just having books around was all I needed, and besides, even if I didn’t find them to my taste enough to read them, I could still peruse them, and I would, and often.

 I don’t remember being at ease much when I was a kid, or after, but I do clearly remember looking through books that I didn’t understand, or didn’t catch my interest enough to read through, and being at peace. It was like a dome had settled over me, isolating me from all the noise picked up by my hyper-vigilant brain, allowing me to be non-reactive, even placid, as the effusive calm of repetitive motion, the unique sounds of books on wooden shelves, the blur and clarity of fast and slow pages, and the smell of paper, brought me back into myself.

For a little while.

 I don’t read nearly as much as I did when I was a youngster, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have books that I intend to read someday. I have lots of them, and I always will. I don’t follow that strange cult of tidiness, with that weird lady that says you should have no more than 10 books. Who the fuck signs up for that? Seriously, get rid of your mostly useless, largely disposable, cheap plastic shit, and clutter your house with books. Somebody has to have books for when the lights go out, and besides, books are the easiest thing in the world to organise neatly; it’s not as if they’re scrolls, or a miniature plastic kitchen, or a walmart painting, or a vase with dusty fake flowers, they’re cuboids. Ten books....what a freak. I have tens of dictionaries. I suppose that’s my particular brand of madness, though; some people juggle geese.

 I’ve had a tough time mitigating the chaos in my life. This fact is possibly best exemplified by the number of times I have moved in the last fifteen or so years. Thirty moves is a modest estimate, and each time, I have packed up and moved all of my books with me, 12 to 16 boxes of them, usually by myself. Such a pattern is to be avoided if at all possible; it’s brutal work, it’s expensive, and it’s desperately lonely because if you’re moving that much, things aren’t working out for you at all because you don’t know how to live.

 I’d often be super depressed, or drunk, while packing, and during such times I would be struck by some hopeful inspiration, and write myself a note, then tuck it in with the books I was boxing up. I did this because I knew I’d be heartbroken when I was unpacking, alone yet again, and I’d need something, some reason to even bother unpacking one more time.

 It became ritual; pick a spot for the shelf, set it up, and unpack the books. I’d sustain myself with pizza, beer, and vodka, or wine and cigarettes with a grocery store charcuterie if I was feeling fancy. No music. Nobody.

 And I would cry.

 It would start right away, my ritual of grief, and amidst the piles of books, I’d become lost in it. I’d find my notes from past self telling me that I should treat myself well, and that it was going to be ok, and that it was time to stand up and make some change, and that I should love myself, and that I am not my mistakes, and that I love you, but it was all wasted on me because I was a fucking alcoholic, and I had trapped myself. Seeking oblivion, I’d pass out.

 I’d put the books away the next day, or over the next couple of days, but there was no magic, no wonder, no sense of calm; it was just another task. It was always nice to have done though, a thousand pounds of book and shelf is....something, and I needed something.

 Later, I’d stand and stare at it, hesitant. Tentatively I’d reach out, one finger to the top of a spine, and pull it back.

And be enveloped.

Drawn in and held just like that little kid, sitting on the floor with his legs akimbo, lost in the rare calm. Maybe he was reading, maybe not, but there was always time for that later.

right now

he was

good enough