24 September 2010


I read...a lot.  Books and reading was something that was automatic growing up.  It was never something I felt I had to learn because EVERYONE in my family reads.  My mom used to use the bookstore as a day care center when she had to run errands.  She'd let my brother and me choose 2-3 books, we'd look for an out of the way corner and she'd leave us after pointing out which sales girl to go to if we wanted more books.  Books, instead of toys were used as rewards for good behavior for my brother and me.  I remember asking for clothes or toys and my mom would always say that it was too expensive but when I bring 5-10 books to the register, it was always "That's it?".

You will see books almost everywhere in my house, even in the kitchen and bathrooms.  Both of my grandfathers dedicated one room in their houses as libraries so the smell of wood and old paper makes for a very vivid childhood memory.  My uncles would always be trading books and this is something that my cousins and I still do.  Books have even been used as leverage in family arguments.  I held my brother's Tolkien hostage for two weeks because he refused to let go of the remote.  Don't think first editions because none of our books are for display.  Dog ears, cracked spines, oily fingers, everything that would make a collector cringe.  Although I draw the line at tearing pages out, I've been known to use the blank pages as notebooks in a pinch.

Every time I move, my books comprise 35-40% of my stuff.  Aside from fixing my closet, packing, unpacking then arranging the books on the shelves is my official moved-in moment.  Makes me wonder what would happen if I have to move to another country.

As of this year, I have officially run out of shelf space.  Since the installation of new shelves is not possible, I have taken to bed and floor filing... 

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