(no subject)
About ten or so years ago... (Briefly considers checking archives to determine exactly when. Discards notion with perjudice.) there was a flood at Mandala House. The pipes in an upstairs bathroom sink burst while the Co Pilot and I were in Boston for 4 days, attending Arisia, and by the time the housesitters got to the place and turned the water off, roughly 20% of my library had been destroyed in the deluge.
There was much wailing and gnashing of teeth, much yelling at insurance adjustors, and much hasty packing up of what books had survived, so we could empty the damaged rooms and make space for the contractors to work therein. The books got packed up into 10 gallon blue plastic bins which, when we stacked them 5 high, created a ten foot long wall -- and that wasn't even counting the comics, or the books that hadn't been stored downstairs at all. (Hint. When the movers unpacked us from the truck in 2002, Co Pilot responded to one of the workmen's ribbing by admitting that we had a ton of books. The truck driver, who was watching the built in scales, corrected him "Two, actually" So even with the do-decimation, there was a lot of cellulose going on there.)
Once the walls and floors and ceiling had all been repaired, and we'd made a run by Ikea for 10 f00t tall bookshelves, we had been living with that great wall of books for something like 6 months, and I was just DONE. I unpacked the lot with only passing consideration as to subject, category, author, or genre -- mostly I concerned myself with grouping the damn things by size and my ability to fit them all into the shelves, and pretty much left it at that. End result being that in a person could spend hours in there hunting and probably not know where to find Ken Scholes or Jo Walron, unless they asked me for directions first. And even then, I might have an easier time just going in and looking for it myself.
Every once in awhile, I go in there and spend an hour or two reminding myself why I haven't tried to apply any sort of library science to the Book Hoard... it's a bit like playing a fusion of Tetris, Scrabble, and Kiss-Shag-Marry, with a side game of "where did this even come from," and a rousing chorus of "Jeezy Creezy, I need to either read some more of these, or stop spending money on books!"
Over the course of a year or so, I often wind up with a stack of books that I bought on spec, but then found I didn't love. I try to give those away, because for one, used bookstores don't seem to be a Thing up here in the Frozen Northeast, and for two, I am religiously opposed to throwing books away. As a kid, I always wanted to have books that were mine, and that I would get to keep, and not have to turn back in to the library, or put back on my mother's shelves, but somehow my mom kept giving me things like clothes, and bikes, and stuffed diplodoci, and tea sets instead. I spent my allowance every week on 2 comic books and a bottle of strawberry Fanta at the corner bodega, and to this day, the ability to buy a book I fancy is my emotional rescue tactic when I feel terrible.
Which is probably why I have so damn many books.
Anybody want one?
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There was much wailing and gnashing of teeth, much yelling at insurance adjustors, and much hasty packing up of what books had survived, so we could empty the damaged rooms and make space for the contractors to work therein. The books got packed up into 10 gallon blue plastic bins which, when we stacked them 5 high, created a ten foot long wall -- and that wasn't even counting the comics, or the books that hadn't been stored downstairs at all. (Hint. When the movers unpacked us from the truck in 2002, Co Pilot responded to one of the workmen's ribbing by admitting that we had a ton of books. The truck driver, who was watching the built in scales, corrected him "Two, actually" So even with the do-decimation, there was a lot of cellulose going on there.)
Once the walls and floors and ceiling had all been repaired, and we'd made a run by Ikea for 10 f00t tall bookshelves, we had been living with that great wall of books for something like 6 months, and I was just DONE. I unpacked the lot with only passing consideration as to subject, category, author, or genre -- mostly I concerned myself with grouping the damn things by size and my ability to fit them all into the shelves, and pretty much left it at that. End result being that in a person could spend hours in there hunting and probably not know where to find Ken Scholes or Jo Walron, unless they asked me for directions first. And even then, I might have an easier time just going in and looking for it myself.
Every once in awhile, I go in there and spend an hour or two reminding myself why I haven't tried to apply any sort of library science to the Book Hoard... it's a bit like playing a fusion of Tetris, Scrabble, and Kiss-Shag-Marry, with a side game of "where did this even come from," and a rousing chorus of "Jeezy Creezy, I need to either read some more of these, or stop spending money on books!"
Over the course of a year or so, I often wind up with a stack of books that I bought on spec, but then found I didn't love. I try to give those away, because for one, used bookstores don't seem to be a Thing up here in the Frozen Northeast, and for two, I am religiously opposed to throwing books away. As a kid, I always wanted to have books that were mine, and that I would get to keep, and not have to turn back in to the library, or put back on my mother's shelves, but somehow my mom kept giving me things like clothes, and bikes, and stuffed diplodoci, and tea sets instead. I spent my allowance every week on 2 comic books and a bottle of strawberry Fanta at the corner bodega, and to this day, the ability to buy a book I fancy is my emotional rescue tactic when I feel terrible.
Which is probably why I have so damn many books.
Anybody want one?