novembre ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- You're the weight that I've been waiting for. I love processing the discards and last copy discards at work. Some of the books the library decides to throw away are instant treasures to me, old editions from authors I love, rare antiquated beauties, or books to alter. (The best are the books that are four times my age.) Others, I save their covers because one day I want to wallpaper a small room with them. (Most are from the fifties, sixties and seventies. There are many glazed science fiction illustrations. There are quirky author photos.) I don't know when this one day will be, but this odd covers collection doesn't take up that much space so it doesn't make me feel as if I am adding to emotionally heavy baggage. I have so much stuff. Maybe that's why I love working at the library. Gigantic, musty collections. Makes me feel insignificant. I also take cathartic pleasure in throwing the discards away: I heave them into the recycling bin and my arms feel long and lean, and empty. It's a bit like flying. Maybe that's why I feel so old and broken lately, in these weeks after falling off a bike and collecting several sprains. I can't hurl like I used to when I discard books now; the catharsis is gone. Short, fat, wide, weighed down. So tensions build, adding strain under the sprain. Talk about emotional weight. 2:57 pm - 02.06.09 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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