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Originally uploaded by Rachel Ariel.
I've been cleaning a lot. Getting ready for Leise to move in, trying to shed some of the detritus from the life of a packrat. My problem is paper. I keep scraps with sentimental value, I keep bills and copies of bills, statements and applications. And books. So many books. I don't get rid of the books, not because I think I will reread them (with so many books in the world that I haven't already read, it seems... wasteful to re read any but the most exceptional of books) but because someday I may want to have them. Someday I may have a child who loves Star Wars, or murder mysteries. And god knows I won't be able to replenish my collection of The Cat Who... books, or Star Wars novels as cheaply as I purchased them for in the first place. I bought most of them used... something I so rarely do anymore. I wonder why...? What little piece of me has bought into the idea that I need for something to be *new*? I love the smell of old books, I love the different, older covers, I love the different consistencies of the paper. I keep thinking perhaps I will set my books free... utilize bookcrossing.com but then again... no one really seems to take that particularlu seriously. Alas. The individual sheets of paper can be discarded, shredded and recycled. On Sunday I threw out a scrap of paper with an old love's e mail address and the name from which he derived it written on it. A small memento from the days just after I realized how unreachable he was to me. A message carried to three different states, and across half a country, used as a bookmark, and then merely kept for the sake of keeping it. And now, it's trash, under day old coffee grounds and cat litter.
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