Affectation

I have 10,001 books.

Because I read. 

I recently cleaned out the insignificant books, you know, the ones I read purely for entertainment and to forget about who I am. Brought them down to the Swap Shop at the dump - boxes and boxes - so the near-illiterate can have something to read while they drink cheap whiskey and clean their guns.

I bought two new book cases - big fellas with plenty of room - to accomodate the overflow, and reserve space for the 10,001 books I will acquire between now and my death.

I have been telling family members and friends that the remaining books will be there for my sons to pick through after I die. To get a sense of who I was, to divvy up between them if there is any interest.

I say it as if that is the primary reason I am organizing my books.

It is not. It is partially true, but the real reason is that I love my books. I love being surrounded by them.

I sit up here and look around at these book cases and reflect upon the fact that this is my life; these books represent thousands of hours of dedicated reading. Thousands of hours whose origin goes back to my youthful years, sitting on my parents' porch, second floor, 120 Winthrop Street - reading in the summertime.

I cherished those moments. I was not stuck in my room. I was outside listening to birds chirp, digging the warmth, digging the beauty and relative quiet of the street I lived on, digging that big goddamn tree that stood right in front of me. Stopping occasionally to watch cars drive by, people walk by, or just look around at the houses that surrounded me. Feel the cool breeze flowing through.

I sit here sometimes, lean back in my chair and swivel around, looking at the books that surround me. And I realize that I am looking at a reflection of my soul.

I am proud of the books I have collected. Proud of the reading I have done. I could not have lived this long without it.

I am getting lost in book reverie. But the real reason I am here today is to admit to affectation. Something I am trying to change.

The whole "doing it for my sons" thing. I say things for effect. I don't speak the honest truth. I am incapable of doing that because of the wall I have built around myself.

I cannot ever have a conversation with another human being - any human being ever in any situation - without being hyper-aware of how I am coming across, of what I am saying, of how that person is reacting to what I am saying. The only time my guard is down is when I am totally and unequivocally alone.

That is a hard and lonely truth.

I pay close atttention to people who are comfortable in their own skin - people who speak their minds in courage, people who are not painfully self-conscious - I wonder how the fuck they can do that. And I'm envious of the peace of mind it must give them.

I do want my sons to go through my books when I'm gone. I hope that a few of those books will inspire them to say "Wow, I didn't know he was into that. There was more to Dad than we knew."

But these bookcases surround me primarily for my own peace of mind, my own pride. There is an electric connection when you can look directly at manifestations of your own soul.

This is how I survive as a human being.