Today, I worked on cleaning my apartment in preparation for packing up items for storage. I realized I have a lot of stuff. Most of it is crap, but useful-ish crap, like class notes, scripts, and mementos. Some of it is disposable; if I have deemed an item useless, I throw it out. This rarely happens, but when it does, it’s usually an extra copy of a script or notes from a paper that I wrote two semesters ago. One item, however, seems to keep piling up no matter how much I try to dispose of it.
Bloomsbury. Methuen Drama. TCG. Routledge.
These are the names that peer out at me from under the crap on the coffee table, to the box next to the couch. Catalogs from up to five years back. Some are even duplicates. I know that I threw a few away, yet more still keep coming back to haunt me. I am enticed by the pretty pictures on the covers. I am titillated by the titles inside. I highlight, ear mark, and sometimes record titles in a spreadsheet on my computer before throwing them away, yet I still find more at the bottoms of boxes.
And at ATHE, I know I’m going to pick up like five more, because they are free and allow me to live in a world of fantasy where I can afford all the books.