Well, I’m not exactly bookless. This is the extent of my physical personal library right now.
When I moved back to San Pedro in Dec. 2009, I couldn’t bring all of my books with me. Thanks to the packrat ways of my mother and grandmother, I would have to part with my book collection temporarily.
Eventually they found a home in my uncle’s attic. Sure it really sucked I couldn’t have them with me, but at least I knew once my stay here was done I would be reunited with them.
Earlier this afternoon, my uncle’s wife came in and told me she had given them away to charity by mistake earlier this year. I couldn’t say anything. In fact, I think my face just froze into the disbelieving smile I had.
She thought I would be angry, but sadness was what took hold of me. I reassured her of that.
I feel really retarded that I’m basically grieving over this. I hadn’t had them with me for about five years. It’s not like I thought of my books everyday.
Sure I owned several hundred books — I never did a full inventory of my library, but I’m sure it was quickly approaching 500. But there were handwritten annotations I made in the margins, the memories of where I was when I read a certain book, where I was in my life, where I was when I bought the book. Books from bookstores that no longer exist, books that I read to ignore the stupid crushes I had on straight boys. There were the books that I bought just to be subversive. The books I bought because I didn’t want to read the books I was assigned to read.
I feel like part of my identity had been ripped from me. I know how stupid that sounds. I know all of this is irrational. But that’s what I’m feeling right now. Maybe this will go away soon.