the last month.
There are books that will not be put away.
Leaving New York hits me like a brick and I realize I do not have a home, again. Again I force myself to leave the second I start belonging somewhere. Again I do not let myself have an ounce of comfort. An ounce of sanity. An ounce of familiarity.
Again I bring boxes home, again I drink old merlot, again I pack carefully at first, jerkily at second.
I stop and stare around at my apartment like its bare walls will show some sympathy for me.
And there are books that will not be put away.
There are books that I pick up and look at and I remember who gave them to me and I remember how I read them, where I was when I finished them, what they tasted like and what they felt like underneath my head, how I used them like a pillow when I could not sleep on down.
Empty shelves and empty walls and a map of Paris I will bring with me wherever I end up. A black suitcase and a spattering of old, worn furniture I’ll leave out on the curb.
And these books, the ones that refuse to be put away.
You cannot take a book with you to Scotland, I say.
But there are no rules. And if there are, then I’ve made them. Then I’ve made them and I’ll break them and I’ll read this again outside a castle, I say. I’ll read this again in a place of utter strangeness.
