Skip to main content

Reading Grounds

I like libraries. The warm tones and the quietness and the books. I love to people-watch the kind that sits reading or studying. The best time to go to the library is at 7 p.m. But alas, I cannot go there too often. It might result in me getting a library card.
And that is some risky business.
I take out too many books. More than most people can read. More than I can read. Usually. Mostly. And I never take them back on time.
Taking out library books has other little dangers for me. I am a rough and tumble sort of girl. I like getting into things.
And that includes my books. By the end of a good read, the novel usually has coffee stains and a piece of the cover torn. Paperbacks have snapped spines. Some books visit my bath water. A book can age pretty quick being with me. Sometimes it gets really, really old.
There have been many times I have had to replace the entire price of the book to the library.
I will admit this happens if the book was really good and I just want to keep it too, though.
For these reasons libraries miss me. I have paid out so much to them, new ones have been built.
It is just cheaper for me to go to the bookstore.

So, I have a new book in my home. It is not mine.
I decided tonight to have a bubble bath and the book came with me. I stepped into the warm, foamy water and sunk in. I closed my eyes for five minutes. Then I reached for the book. I watched as my damp hands left wet splotches sinking into the black of it's hard cover.
Oh no.
This book has reminded me why I am not comfortable borrowing books from people, either.
I bit my lip. I had to make a decision.
I really want to read this book, even though it is not the type of book I would normally read. The person who owns this book is interesting enough for me to want to know why this book is so interesting to them.
I want to enjoy this book. It's bad enough I cannot dog-ear the pages.
So, I compromised.
I laid back in the water. I opened the book. I started reading. I like being able to get into things.
This is the last time I will treat it like shit.
I promise.

Comments

Esther said…
this brings back memories of overdue books and having to face the librarian! It also bring back fond memories of hours spent reading at the library. I never lend out my books *chuckle*
What if...the book in question...is not actually owned by the person who lent it to you, but in fact borrowed from a friend...what if...this book was a gift from his mother...water damage...What is this feeling...panic...mild panic...Oh lovely...now I'm laughing...nervous laughter...no, I wonder if he'll be upset...did you read the inside cover? his mother wrote something...for the life of me I cannot remember what it was...I hope it's still legible...
Silik said…
The best thing, I find, about a library is the smell of old books. It's hard to get that smell very many places. Book stores tend to not manage, because the books have to have aged properly before the scent can permeate the room. So I was estatic this weekend when I entered a used-book store, and the first thought I had was, "mmmmmm, library".
Queenie said…
I know a place just like that...
You have not been posting as much lately, Silik.

Q
Phoesable said…
Wow, do I relate to this. Some of my fondest childhood memories are of loading up every week at the library with more books than I could comfortably carry home and reading long after the lights had gone out throughout the house. These days I only borrow books from people as hard on them as I am --- so they can't tell the difference. I tend to lend them only to such people, too, in case the others might mistake a battered book for one I wouldn't miss if it weren't returned...
Silik said…
Yeah, life's been busy. And I've had a few good books taking up my time since I hit the used-book store! Yay!

Popular posts from this blog

The Village Itself

Across the road from my home is an apartment building. It is made of brown brick and has three stories. It also has plenty of windows I often forget about while I go about my daily and nightly routines. I also forget my curtains are white, lacey and see-through scraps purchased from an aisle in Wal-Mart. Fifteen apartments. That may all house people with binoculars. It was the muggiest night this past summer had owned. Brenda was down for a visit and when she comes, it usually means a night spent over on my couch for her. Brenda lives in another town. It was one in the morning, no sleep to be found between the two us. We sat slouched on my front porch trying to capture the occasional breeze offered, sucking it deep into our lungs, praying it would cool us down. Our glasses of Pepsi sweated warning us how warm the drink would taste in our mouths. "Tilly! Tilly!" the shout sat our spines straight as we looked across the street to the where the sound was coming fr...

..What Are You Waiting For?

She had a real calm smile; it took its time creeping up into her eyes. And there she was looking up at me. She was sitting, right down there on the sidewalk, up against the wall of the bank. Her hand was wrapped around a red pen; buried into a magazine. And I was walking by her. Her eyes were brown. I did not smile back at her. One can never be too sure about anyone who is downtown. A few days later; it was grey and chilly, and I saw her again. With the same simple smile; this time growing into recognition. She stood just inside the entrance way of the video store, ducked, despite the fact she was barley five feet tall and the doorway was at least ten. Funny girl, I thought. Her smile passed by quickly, and then she bent her head down, to the inside of another magazine. She took a long, lipstick drag off a cigarette. "What are you doing?" she asked, when I was passing by her a day and a half later. And I stopped my step, for I was truly stumped. I looked down at my br...

Rosy Cheeks

My son's circle and lined wall, created with the permanent red marker, became something he liked to show-off. I guess the other kids who come here liked it, too.   I guess he wanted to show-off more. That is one of the many hypothesis I have about how the Map of Africa came to be. I just keep hoping my kid is some kind of odd little genius.  On the morning I discovered the map of Africa, I was not speechless and I could breathe. "What is this?" I demanded. And loudly. My son shrugged his shoulders. "I like it. It's nice. Took a long time." He had chipped paint off the wall. His walls are white. That morning, it was discovered his room used to be beige.   And it was starting to look like a room in an abandoned house. I thought to myself that maybe this look would be the in thing  20 years from now and he could make millions. He could be a visionary. It was a good enough excuse for me to leave the room. I used it...