(or what comes closest to home for me at that moment, that is the shared house we’ve had with friends for the past 4 years, which we won’t be able to live in any more by end of august, and in which I’m not even an official room-mate any more, having passed my room to a friend for this last year of acute nomadism. So really I should say: I’m on the couch in the living room of what used to be my shared house that is still home to some of my stuff in boxes and my piano, but that’s a lot longer, so…) :
I’ve been home for 2 days.
Again (and as it seems always) in transit, between two travels, taking time to sort out the remaining boxes, organizing the moving of my piano from one city to another (or rather, trying to, it seems it is akin to getting your Indian Visa renewed in a small not-touristic city in Tamil Nadu (yes, I have fun activities sometimes!) in terms of general organizational Hell). And getting Visas. And hanging out with friends and coffee. And trying to pretend it is summer in Geneva, which means going to concerts in parks and open air cinemas armed with a collection of waterproof vests, umbrellas and fleeces. You can pretend the pouring rain is actually tropical monsoon season if you try hard enough, I know that for a fact.
But reading outside is more problematic due to most of my books being made out of boring paper and not waterproof plastic. I know, that’s strange. The minute someone actually creates books for adults that you can drop into the bath without any damage, I’ll buy the lot and go read under water or in the rain. Develop it, someone!
So there has been a lot of reading on my piano stool, as I started sorting out my piano sheet music pile (a.k.a. the modern art installation that is an allegory of impending doom on the left corner of said piano, see 1st picture) and then getting distracted because, well, books are there. And suddenly I realized: all these books are books I bought (or received) after putting all my books in boxes, last August. All of this I bought in 9 months. It may not seem a lot to you but when you think that usually about 90 percent of the books I read are library books, it’s scary. Even more so because at the moment I stacked all my books in boxes there were already way too many books for the space I have in my bookshelves. And, not having the crammed bookshelves on sight any more, I gave myself almost unlimited book-buying license. That is very scary.
Now I have to move my bookshelves, get my boxes and… live another few days of pure horror because some “getting rid of books” will have to happen. And it makes me now sad to look at this lot of books, having realized that. Poor books, they look so innocent here (apart from the Angela Carter’s fairy tales collection cover, that is some devious looking mermaid-serpent-lady , this one knows what’s coming).
Being in existential distress I’ve started googling the location of the Ikea closest to the city I’m moving to. Surely my future room-mate won’t object to one more bookshelf, right?