Thursday, June 18, 2009
Photos
I wanted photos with my books, so my sister took some. I wanted images that were soft and dreamlike, with the whisper of beautiful, forgotten things, and the texture of a different time... like secret secondhand bookshops, and gold-tipped fountain pens, and embossed stationery, and beloved hope chests of (not that) long ago.
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I am a bookworm, and the books are mine.These old ones are from my great grandfather's library. I love that out of all the branches of our family tree, out of all the grandchildren and great grandchildren, the clan elders chose to hand them down to me -- not to my mom or my dad, but to me, specifically. They now reside in my room, nestled among younger tales and newer stories. I love them, and everything they stand for: history and roots and family; the intrinsic beauty of old, well-loved things; knowledge; imagination; the stunning internal landscapes of dreamers long since gone...
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And here I am, my favorite backpack behind me, an open box beside, always coming, always going. And always waiting, waiting for things to begin, unaware (or perhaps I've simply forgotten) that the world is still going round, and that things have already started to move, and that the beginnings have, somewhere, begun to fall in place.
In a completely different way, I must say that I love my cowboy boots too. I got them while I was still living in New York
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The dress is from Manila
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The cup I'm holding is one of MY cups (I have two), and it goes where I go. Coffee doesn't taste any sweeter, and tea doesn't taste any purer, but somehow, the experience of sipping a hot drink from one of my beloved cups makes my mornings (or afternoons, or evenings) just that much better. The cup is a simple, stark white, and there's a caricature of a naked girl in front, with "bookslut" written just below it. I had it specially made for me, while I was living in Vegas.
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Feeling (and probably looking) like a kid in a candy shop. I'm quite partial to the smell and feel of books in general, but I think OLD HARDBOUND BOOKS are especially orgasmic. There's something about the gently yellowing pages, the old, delicately mottled leather, the brittle glue that's always in danger of coming undone, that simply undoes something in me.
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And here I am, my favorite backpack behind me, an open box beside, always coming, always going. And always waiting, waiting for things to begin, unaware (or perhaps I've simply forgotten) that the world is still going round, and that things have already started to move, and that the beginnings have, somewhere, begun to fall in place.
11:01:00 AM
