Rather than accumulate things like a responsible American consumer, I just want get rid of stuff I don't need.
This has been proving rather more difficult than I would have imagined, at least in some respects.
For example, I didn't have any trouble cleaning out my underwear drawer or my clothes closet of all the ratty stuff I no longer wear. And some of the gewgaws in the kitchen whatchamacallit drawer.
But books are tough.
"I can't get rid of that one, so-and-so gave it to me." Or, "Nope, those belonged to my grandfather." Or, "I haven't read that one yet, but I'm sure I'm going to one day."
Some have such lovely photos, I take time out to page through them and decide we cannot part.
I imagine myself in my dotage, surrounded by these tomes, and it comforts me somehow. Yet I realize it's more likely I will have taken up residence in much smaller digs by that time, with only a couple dozen of my favorite bound beauties.
In the meantime, I continue to take out books from the library.
I suppose if you're going to collect something, books at least are intellectual and relatively affordable, particularly if you procure them from used book sales (or Half Price Books).
Mr. Ginley, alas, shares my passion, which does complicate things a bit. He, at least, has managed to part with many, many boxes of books. I'm still working on it.
In the meantime, I'm thinking about what my next read will be.
Maybe a little Steinbeck would do. Or a juicy mystery. Or maybe I'll just rummage through my collection of children's books and spend the afternoon playing.
It's so nice to get lost in a book.
I'll think about which ones to get rid of tomorrow.
Say goodnight, Scarlet.
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