Just a Little Dose of Insanity..
Some bunch of comedians, not in any way, shape or form crucial to the development of my sense of humour, once created a film. In this film a King and a guard debated swallows and their tendancy to migrate when frost begins to form on their tail feathers. Two swallows might be able to carry...a coconut, persay? But I think it would take at least one more to carry a book. Or maybe just one to fling it the distance of my room from the bookcase, to the shelf next to my bed. It comes to my attention every time I actually bother to sort out my room, at least ten of the buggers have moved to form a small mountain under the desk. Which then prompted the theory that books, like birds, enjoy a change in scenery and the warmth of a fan heater. So I give you this.
The Migratory Patterns of Books:
Let us begin the journey of the book at the start - not in the middle, nor in the end, though it may end up that way anyway - where wood and water becomes a crisp white-ish page, then splattered with the black ink of a madman's creative musings and bound together with several other such victims to become something for the pleasure of reading, to be picked up from the display case and either replaced uncerimoniously and without care, or added to a stack and taken to a different place of residence, a different wooden shelf, with different books...you get the idea. There it will sit until one day the person who bought it eventually realises that it hasn't been read yet and will take it down, dust it off, bend the spine and sift through the contents, sometimes giggling, sometimes crying, and, occasionally, closing it up and using it to hit someone/thing with.
It might be some time before it sits on the lofty perches of that oak shelf once more, instead condemned to sit in a dark drawer at the work place, forgotten about once more until all the paper has been shifted off it, or perhaps moved to a bedside table, where it will be read every night until finished, fall off the bed once the hands have let go and make a bid for freedom under the bed until the next clear out. Nice and peaceful. Most of the books on the ivory perch will find themselves in the same position, not really staying on the shelf much at all, but instead left randomly in any room of the house.
Almost like socks. You leave them scattered around the house, then wonder why you can only ever find one half of them. Books feel the same, and like any household object, will make itself incredibly awkward to find when someone is deliberately searching for them. Usually by hiding in plain sight. Gets 'em every time. Or if it's not the books themselves conspiring against a desire to be battered about, a household feline is also more than happy to oblige. Several shelves worth of books might migrate to coat the entire room with woodpulp with the artful nudge of a cat's paw.
It is only when one stops to think about it, that only the books that are read once, but never again tend to be saved the trauma of forced migration, it is the ones that are loved and cherished that find themselves constantly on the move between shelf, floor, handbag and table, getting several metaphorical grey hairs, and growing older and more weatherbeaten with every transition, relishing the time when they get laid to rest in a cardboard box, or remain on the shelf for fear that it 'might just fall apart next time'.
Be nice to your books, folks. Or one day you might find they've all gone on strike underneath the bed.
~ This is property of Kirstine Heald, anyone who attempts to steal it and use it as their own shall find their attempts met with pain, frustration and a black eye caused by my cat wielding a frying pan.
The Migratory Patterns of Books:
Let us begin the journey of the book at the start - not in the middle, nor in the end, though it may end up that way anyway - where wood and water becomes a crisp white-ish page, then splattered with the black ink of a madman's creative musings and bound together with several other such victims to become something for the pleasure of reading, to be picked up from the display case and either replaced uncerimoniously and without care, or added to a stack and taken to a different place of residence, a different wooden shelf, with different books...you get the idea. There it will sit until one day the person who bought it eventually realises that it hasn't been read yet and will take it down, dust it off, bend the spine and sift through the contents, sometimes giggling, sometimes crying, and, occasionally, closing it up and using it to hit someone/thing with.
It might be some time before it sits on the lofty perches of that oak shelf once more, instead condemned to sit in a dark drawer at the work place, forgotten about once more until all the paper has been shifted off it, or perhaps moved to a bedside table, where it will be read every night until finished, fall off the bed once the hands have let go and make a bid for freedom under the bed until the next clear out. Nice and peaceful. Most of the books on the ivory perch will find themselves in the same position, not really staying on the shelf much at all, but instead left randomly in any room of the house.
Almost like socks. You leave them scattered around the house, then wonder why you can only ever find one half of them. Books feel the same, and like any household object, will make itself incredibly awkward to find when someone is deliberately searching for them. Usually by hiding in plain sight. Gets 'em every time. Or if it's not the books themselves conspiring against a desire to be battered about, a household feline is also more than happy to oblige. Several shelves worth of books might migrate to coat the entire room with woodpulp with the artful nudge of a cat's paw.
It is only when one stops to think about it, that only the books that are read once, but never again tend to be saved the trauma of forced migration, it is the ones that are loved and cherished that find themselves constantly on the move between shelf, floor, handbag and table, getting several metaphorical grey hairs, and growing older and more weatherbeaten with every transition, relishing the time when they get laid to rest in a cardboard box, or remain on the shelf for fear that it 'might just fall apart next time'.
Be nice to your books, folks. Or one day you might find they've all gone on strike underneath the bed.
~ This is property of Kirstine Heald, anyone who attempts to steal it and use it as their own shall find their attempts met with pain, frustration and a black eye caused by my cat wielding a frying pan.