Like a junkie

I found myself this evening darting to and fro in my apartment. I felt out of control in the situation. I just kept looking in cabinets and drawers and moving things. What isn't here? What??

An old saying says that home is where you hang your hat. Never one to wear hats, it's never quite fit for me. One day, many years and apartments ago, I was living in a situation that I was tempted to get out of. I'd been in the apartment almost a year and if I was going my lease said it was time to do so. Confused about how I felt and what I wanted, I looked over at a wall lined with boxes. They contained all my books. My entire personal library. Nearly a year later and they, both my children in some sense and my mentors in another, were still without a place. I looked at those boxes and I knew, for me, home is where I put my books. Having never felt comfortable enough to unpack them, my decision to leave was immediate. It was simple, really.

An international move meant that I couldn't possibly take my library with me. I thought about it, trust me. Much like that point where I decided to stay or to go in the old apartment, I look at the books I have here - books that were among the first (if not the first) thing I gave a home here - and I want more of them. I want at least part of my library with me. This, however briefly, is my home.

This sounds a bit compulsive and rash, I'm sure. Like I have a strange attachment to just being near books. I do. I love it. Every room usually has books stashed someplace (except the bathroom...um...I don't really need them there, thanks). Part is that I just love books. Part is that I love having a huge selection on hand so that whenever I finish a book I can walk into my library and pick whatever suits me at the time. I haven't read half of the books I own, and it will probably always that way, allowing me to shop in my own library whenever I choose. I buy books in bulk. I walk into a good bookstore and I come out with an armful - as content as I could possibly be. Some women like to buy clothes or jewelry, I like to buy books (and homewares and skin care products...I digress).

I'm due, in my own mental health timeline, for another vacation. Most likely a solo one. I'm tempted to go someplace (namely, London) with great bookstores and tea/coffee shops that I can sit and read in. Great art, great history, great theater. It all works. Well, except for that whole expense thing. London would take all that I have, still, I am oh-so tempted. I'd damn near fly back to New York just for the treat of browsing stores I already knew and loved. I could see thousands of dollars flying out the window and into bookstore registers. It'd be so easy and fun to do.

I miss the books themselves. I miss the access to knowledge and other points of view. I miss being able to say "I really want some feminist theory" or "Hmm...Eastern religion..." and just diving in. I miss a room lined from ceiling to floor with books - books stacked and crammed into every free space and even then, spilling into other areas. I miss making my home really look and feel like me.