I'm a total hussy for books. This is proven fact. I know a lot of people who say they LOVE reading and I do too, but that's not necessarily what I mean when I say I love books. I love everything about and around books; from start to finish. From the writing, editing, and printing to the typeface and design of their dust jackets. Books complete me. Books are the bread to my butter, or the other way around. If I hadn't met J, books would have occupying the opposite side of the bed, in neat little gold-leaved stacks. But let me back up for a moment.
So, the great thing about depression (yes, you read that correctly), is that when you finally decide to throw off its rusty shackles, life greets you with all the splendor you've been denying yourself while wallowing. Books, music, art, movement! Colors, sounds, fuzzy animals: they're all waiting to be rediscovered! It's like I'd forgotten how to feel passionately about anything, and that is truly tragic... especially when it comes to books. I mean, I haven't sat and read a book in what seems like forever! Oh sure, I'd pick one up and go through the motions, but what good are books if reading doesn't inspire you? If it doesn't move you, doesn't plumb the depths of your soul, make you think, or create belly laughs? Reading while overcome with apathy is fruitless and cheapens the experience on the whole. Which is why it gives me great joy to confess that books are, once again, rocking my world!
It's almost a bit overwhelming, actually. Almost. I just look at my bookshelf, at all of the books that have been collecting dust and think, "Holy crumb, I'd better get started!" And THEN I remember all the books I've already read, like old friends, beckoning me to revisit their pages and rehabilitate my deprived psyche while cradled in the loving arms of well-worn end pages. They are my (non living, breathing) home base. It's a beautiful thing.
Since starting to, metaphorically, kick my own ass out of this funk (for lack of a better word) I've been in, I have made my way through an excellent book series (Prophecy of the Sisters: teen fantasy that centers loosely on alternative biblical history. Super snazzy! Loved it, ate it up, will read it again) and started a non-fiction book from the library that I'm tearing through. My current read is from one of my most favored (and geekiest) of categories: books about other books. Yep, I'm currently reading a book about someone reading a book, or several, as the case may be.
Reading Women by Stephanie Staal is essentially one woman's experience with re-taking a class on feminist literature and theory as an adult with real world experiences that she didn't have when she first encountered the same reading material. She laughs, she cries, she listens to a lot of whiney college girls rattle around the ring of fanatical feminist theory as she tries to rediscover herself in a more realistic context for application. If anything, this book is merely an editorialized reading list for me and any other reader who is a lover and an eater of books. Especially books on religion, feminism, or history. It's possible that this book is actually creating more work for me, but right now it's a good kind of work that I absolutely relish.
Before I switch gears, I have to plug this great tumblr I've started following. It's true to it's name and always leaves me salivating:
bookshelfporn
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As a sidenote, does it ever bum you out when you go to set your alarm and it tells you how many hours you have before it's going to wake you up? This happens to me constantly. I'm pretty sure I'd sleep more soundly if my phone had not just told me I only have four hours and change to do so. Setting it well before it needs to go off is even worse! I had to reset my alarm on my way to my car after work and it informed that in exactly 13 hours I'd be heading back to work. Not cool. In short, alarm clocks are rubbish. [/rant]
robin
