I knew packing up all of the books was going to be not only a physically formidable task, but also slightly gut wrenching.
My beloved books, my pages, in whose words and stories, I have hidden for hours, amongst dearest friends I know intimately. I gain strength and inspiration and courage from their pages. I cry, hot, sad tears over them, laugh loudly startling my children, shake my head in disgust at foolish characters, ignored the phone for the luxury of some pure, undiluted reading time...and accidentally scallop their pages in the bathtub one time too many.
As soon as was possible, I taught my girls to read them, then bought them books and shared my passion for reading, for writing, for loving words, with them. I read their books, we discussed them seriously together.
I had to look through them all now, the kids books especially, needed to be thinned out. It was a true rite of passage for my girls. Gone are the "My little pony books", along with "Care bears" and "hello Kitty" now designated for my nieces.
Gone are the first readers with ballerina or princess themes, books with jewel tones, in pepto bismol pinks and lurid purples, with an occasional ingrained gemstone or glitter cover. Not that I would not let Dovi read those glossy, pretty books. I would read them to my son, but he simply would be suitably disgusted and ask for his primary-colored, superhero tosterterone-laden fare...
Splitting up books, so they can read a few with Dad was more difficult.What connotes a primary book versus a secondary book? I decided to leave most of the massive, heavy, lovely coffee table books for paging through together, Chicken soup for the soul type books stayed too, as they can be indulged in small amounts, and they make me cry horribly.
My shelves, they are becoming bare, naked, this place is looking less and less like mine.
I am the book collector, the books are mostly mine. I can't seem to leave many behind. I need them...all.
I have about fifteen big boxes of books, I think, right after the beds are set up in my new apartment, the books will need to be put into shelves. then it will immediately feel like home.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
What do you see?
You know what they say about living in a place, how it is so rare to truly tour and explore, in ones own city. There is no element of hurry to go and see the Empire state building or The Statue of Liberty, because they will be here tommorrow to see, if one feels the inclination to put forth that kind of effort, and so the days pass away.
Sightseeing is by default, left to those observant individuals who still love to see. Some are the children, unlucky enough to be without a DVD players in their cars cranking out the latest animated fare. Noses pressed to smudged car windows, their wiser eyes mark the passage of familiar routes, people and places, and they daydream richly in their own way.
It took me seventeen years and an 'out-of-towner' guest to finally go and visit Lady Liberty. We went to Battery Park and caught a ferry out to her. Standing at the base of her, we both looked up awestruck, stripped clean of all jaded illusions of being passe tourists, this moment was stark and significant. We showed our respective children, who had also never been, the immense weathered, green woman of New York Harbor, and her promise of freedom for all, and had tears of sheer wonder in our eyes.
It is difficult to not just get used to the Urban sprawl of streets, the landmarks flashing past the car window without ceremony.
The incongruous, ridiculous or stereotypical store signs that have simply always been there, and cease to be scenery are just words after all.
Generic, streets which could be in any city in the world, blend in with the startlingly beautiful handcarved architecture of times past.
Even the beat-up shuttered, tattoed husks of buildings squatting alongside laundromats become just color and form.
Symmetrical project blocks, scrabbly chic trees, with roots slyly coming through cracked sidewalk and copious fast food establishments all seem to form a continuous doodled scribble. It has all been seen one too many times, in one too many places, until it is mere blended background.
I consider myself relatively observant. I tend to notice things , sometimes because they are beautiful or wonderful or unusual, other times, because they are interesting in context. I like the stories of things, the oldness, oddness or gorgeousness of the mundane, projecting an atmospheric visual echo.
Driving through New York's upper west side at dusk last night, I watched the cars inching along the ascending grey-ribbon road. Rain washed the dust off the handsome skyscrapers and brownstones. It blurred the blinking of the traffic light sentinels, which winked ruby and jade like synchronised Christmas lights.
Two parallel rows of trees, stood strong, tightly flanking solid rows of brick and stone buildings. They leaned over the street protectively, tossing in the wind like archaic slaves waving feathery palm fronds over unruly children at play.
This New York street was for a moment, a masterpiece, but then again, what scene isn't? What do you see?
Sightseeing is by default, left to those observant individuals who still love to see. Some are the children, unlucky enough to be without a DVD players in their cars cranking out the latest animated fare. Noses pressed to smudged car windows, their wiser eyes mark the passage of familiar routes, people and places, and they daydream richly in their own way.
It took me seventeen years and an 'out-of-towner' guest to finally go and visit Lady Liberty. We went to Battery Park and caught a ferry out to her. Standing at the base of her, we both looked up awestruck, stripped clean of all jaded illusions of being passe tourists, this moment was stark and significant. We showed our respective children, who had also never been, the immense weathered, green woman of New York Harbor, and her promise of freedom for all, and had tears of sheer wonder in our eyes.
It is difficult to not just get used to the Urban sprawl of streets, the landmarks flashing past the car window without ceremony.
The incongruous, ridiculous or stereotypical store signs that have simply always been there, and cease to be scenery are just words after all.
Generic, streets which could be in any city in the world, blend in with the startlingly beautiful handcarved architecture of times past.
Even the beat-up shuttered, tattoed husks of buildings squatting alongside laundromats become just color and form.
Symmetrical project blocks, scrabbly chic trees, with roots slyly coming through cracked sidewalk and copious fast food establishments all seem to form a continuous doodled scribble. It has all been seen one too many times, in one too many places, until it is mere blended background.
I consider myself relatively observant. I tend to notice things , sometimes because they are beautiful or wonderful or unusual, other times, because they are interesting in context. I like the stories of things, the oldness, oddness or gorgeousness of the mundane, projecting an atmospheric visual echo.
Driving through New York's upper west side at dusk last night, I watched the cars inching along the ascending grey-ribbon road. Rain washed the dust off the handsome skyscrapers and brownstones. It blurred the blinking of the traffic light sentinels, which winked ruby and jade like synchronised Christmas lights.
Two parallel rows of trees, stood strong, tightly flanking solid rows of brick and stone buildings. They leaned over the street protectively, tossing in the wind like archaic slaves waving feathery palm fronds over unruly children at play.
This New York street was for a moment, a masterpiece, but then again, what scene isn't? What do you see?
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