I feel a little bit better now. I rediscovered my best medicine - reading.

When the warmth of summer departs, I no longer take long walks. I think that's been affecting me. I've had so much happen in the past year that somehow I managed to forget that I read through the winter like a bear hibernates. This is how I maintain my state of grace during the icy season.

I've now spent $100 I can't afford on new books, mainly because the library in my town sucks, but also because I like to own books. I fetishize them somewhat. Not in a sexual way, but in a sensual one. I like the smooth, clean feel of a dust jacket. I like to run my fingers over raised letters on the fancier jackets. I like to open a book a stick my nose towards the binding, smell the paper, zip flip the pages from back to front, and squeeze the whole package. Something about the sound made by knocking on a book is intensely satisfying to me.

Reading follows, my favorite part. Since last Wednesday I've already downed three books: one each by Stephen King, Michael Connelly,and Tom Wolfe. I have another Wolfe, another Connelly, and a John Irving novel on deck.

I like to wear things down. I like books that have been dropped in dirt, posters that have been ripped by tape and pins, art that has been stained by tobacco smoke, and shoes that look too shoddy for the Salvation Army to accept them. It gives me a sense of time and history. Cracked compact disc covers, shirts with holes and bleach stains, and faces with smile lines engraved at the corners of the eyes.These are a few of my favorite things.
1:22 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm