Dewey Eyed

I frantastic, scribble down every book, every poet, every thought. My visits to the depths of the library are always with that muted excitement. This book may be the ‘one’. I confess I am fickle, and fall in love too often. And after I’ve been there, elsewhere, otherwhere, when I have to go back to the real world, everything is grey. Heartbreak happens at the end of every good book.
   My guilty pleasure is re-reading. I go back to stories I’ve enjoyed at the expense of new books or even reality. A similarly afflicted friend once buried his set of Lord of the Rings, he was so trapped in a circle of rereading. A solemn funereal farewell to a good friend or a desperate attempt to cure his Tolkienian addiction.
   I am currently building a Babel’s tower of books. I promise I have not maxed out my public library card and that I haven’t taken cunning advantage of the fact I have a staff card as well as a student card at the University. But I have thought about it. I’ve tried to impose a law on myself; no renewals. This is to force me not to just get books and hope they will jump into my mind by osmosis, but so I can conquer this Jenga of knowledge and also to keep things under control. I have only broken the law twice. I do keep beginning them. This week I began Don Quixote, Ulysses and Frankenstein and I’m itching to lift the cover on the Inheritors (but that would be back to rereading).
   The problem is one thought leads to another thought, leads to another. The problem is the connections. But this is not the problem, it is the pleasure, it is the possibility, it is the whole bloody point.