(no subject)
I'm in the middle of a massive reorganization of books.
For the first time in my life, I am letting go of some of them. There'll be two hundred fewer on the shelves, once I get them sorted and sent to various used book stores and friends and recycling depots.
The book cases look relaxed now, like they've had a massage or something. But week after next I'm going home to work cattle (the allergy-wuss version of working cattle, which includes making lunch and going to the vet's and - last year only - chasing a stray calf and Irishman half cross the country), and the shelves might fill up again.
Now, I have a lot of books there still, at the farm. My old bedroom has a half-story loft, which my father and I turned into a library when I was in uni. One summer when I was working in hell (waitressing up in the mountains), the parents surprised me by building a main floor bookshelf in between my days off.
A decade on, every bit of shelving is full. And it's so dusty in the loft. And I'm going to be bumming a ride, and won't have much room. But I have got to get those books (and magazines!) out of there.
Last night, coming back from a used book selling spree (got rid of half of them, that time), it was raining and dark, and beautiful too. There was a guy in the bus shelter, and we talked, there and on the bus, and he was so comfortable. Same background as me - western, small-town, country, oil patch; overlapping family histories more than personal.
He was an electrical engineer overseas, got tired of thinking about kidnap and ransom, tired of sitting at a desk all day sending memos. He came home and started working construction again. Lost a lot of weight. Got divorced somewhere in there. So he's healthier now and happy, and straightforward and comfortable.
Sitting in the dark, talking about the pleasure of being able to see what you've done with physical work. It was nice. I've such a split between country and city: I love the country, need it even, but the people cage me down. And I love my city, but I miss animals and fields and the heavy-duty work, and skiing at two in the morning with the northern lights, and seeing the mountains from my window every morning and my grandparents twice a day.
There've been a few times in my life when I've met someone, and there isn't any distance between us, and I know that if we met again for ten minutes, ten years on, we could just pick up. This was one of those people. I didn't feel like I needed to translate myself. I didn't even feel like I needed to explain myself.
It was a good ten minutes.
For the first time in my life, I am letting go of some of them. There'll be two hundred fewer on the shelves, once I get them sorted and sent to various used book stores and friends and recycling depots.
The book cases look relaxed now, like they've had a massage or something. But week after next I'm going home to work cattle (the allergy-wuss version of working cattle, which includes making lunch and going to the vet's and - last year only - chasing a stray calf and Irishman half cross the country), and the shelves might fill up again.
Now, I have a lot of books there still, at the farm. My old bedroom has a half-story loft, which my father and I turned into a library when I was in uni. One summer when I was working in hell (waitressing up in the mountains), the parents surprised me by building a main floor bookshelf in between my days off.
A decade on, every bit of shelving is full. And it's so dusty in the loft. And I'm going to be bumming a ride, and won't have much room. But I have got to get those books (and magazines!) out of there.
Last night, coming back from a used book selling spree (got rid of half of them, that time), it was raining and dark, and beautiful too. There was a guy in the bus shelter, and we talked, there and on the bus, and he was so comfortable. Same background as me - western, small-town, country, oil patch; overlapping family histories more than personal.
He was an electrical engineer overseas, got tired of thinking about kidnap and ransom, tired of sitting at a desk all day sending memos. He came home and started working construction again. Lost a lot of weight. Got divorced somewhere in there. So he's healthier now and happy, and straightforward and comfortable.
Sitting in the dark, talking about the pleasure of being able to see what you've done with physical work. It was nice. I've such a split between country and city: I love the country, need it even, but the people cage me down. And I love my city, but I miss animals and fields and the heavy-duty work, and skiing at two in the morning with the northern lights, and seeing the mountains from my window every morning and my grandparents twice a day.
There've been a few times in my life when I've met someone, and there isn't any distance between us, and I know that if we met again for ten minutes, ten years on, we could just pick up. This was one of those people. I didn't feel like I needed to translate myself. I didn't even feel like I needed to explain myself.
It was a good ten minutes.