oversaturation (A ROOM FULL OF BOOKS)

Our fifth day in Ohio for the in-between waiting and I've only just gotten back to this, although I've thought of it often and have had many things to write.

The U-haul was not big enough for what we had in the Chicago apartment, but it was all we could afford; and the SUV was also deceptively small, so many of our things, my green antique fixture and his white chucks and our blankets, storage bins, that wonky oversized alarm clock and plates, food (all of it, all of it), clothes that we thought okay to abandon immediately. Even that ten-pound free weight, given as a gift from a regular at the bookstore, back when I was a barista and bookseller and sick girl, was left. But not the books, none of those. They went into the boxes first and foremost and usurped a fourth of the space of the five-by-eight trailer and we will not part with them, not with any of the pulp novels either, most especially not Crichton.

In light of this most recent and, for the most part, unplanned purging, we have decided to continue the process, making it our own, making it deliberate. We do not want anything "extra" and of course that is subject to interpretation but what we mean is that we only want to keep what keeps us alive and what we need: clothing (in minimal amounts), food and kitchen accessories, a computer, and books. Books books books, je veux que mon livre me le donner, three-dimensional wallpaper with a thousand smells and fonts to be felt and slept with - mother give me books and I will forsake it all for satanic verses and siren songs and I will leave the skeleton world outside while I am here, locked in, dizzy from the dust on the shelves, my hair growing past the edge of the dais in knots.

Darwin and Gaiman's personal libraries are included. Mmm honey to have visited Charles and to have said, Hello old friend, might I have a look-see in your personal li-bray-ree? And he would lead me into his study, ultra-organized but never stale, and we would both be following his serious face and the thought-wrinkles on his forehead chiseled there by restless, deep study.

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