There's little to talk about at the moment. We're stuck on a seasonal precipice, storm after storm hammering on, each calm that follows a touch warmer than the one before. The wind is so constant that its absence leads to a change of step, a sense of unbalance. There's nothing to lean against while walking.
I strolled around the bookshop yesterday. The hardbacks caught my attention. I studied them, felt the texture of their dust jackets, pondered their design and tested their weight. The dry whiff of the unopened and unread the drifts through all 'new' bookshops pleased my nose. Used bookshops smell warmer though, with leather and wood and dust lingering longer in the air. The memory of loved pages, thumbed ritually, lingers as well.
I didn't buy a hardback. Eyes closed, I imagined a different dust jacket, one with my name on it. Just for a moment though, a split-second daydream before wandering over to the poetry/drama section. My two Complete Works of William Shakespeare both sit in a box in a garage in west London. I grabbed another, a paperback, an edition I don't have. Desert island reading indeed; can't be without a Complete Works for very long. I found another paperback, a tome on writing poetry, another book that sits in a box in a garage in west London. I liked the weight and bought both.
