There’s something reassuring about unpacking books. It sort of declares, “This is home.” I want to leaf through each book as I unpack it. Funny how just a few words here or there can bring back memories, the mood I was in when I was reading each one, the phase of my life. I have a pile of Bukowski books from my East Village days that bring back my tiny studio apartment on 10th street with the loft bed and my psycho-cat Motorhead. The Sandra Cisneros from when I first moved to Seattle. The stack of books–Edward Abbey, John Steinbeck, Mona Simpson–that I used to write my master’s essay. The books I read while living on the kibbutz. The Primo Levi book Adam lent me to read when we first started dating. The trashy wedding-related novels I read while dreaming up my own wedding. I feel more comfortable with my books surrounding me.
Where to Find Me
Where to Find Me
