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sessifetEarlier today, something inside my head went 'I can't be expected to live like this any longer!' and goaded me into a mad unpacking spree. Or at least it attempted to do so. However, in order to unpack my room, I had to tidy the spare bedroom which was at that point covered in books and CDs. In order to tidy the spare room, I had to put stuff back into boxes and ferry more books downstairs. I packed some in a box and carried some downstairs. This is where I hit a snag.
I needed to make a lot of space if I wanted to unpack all my books (including my old study books). I didn't have any space to make more space. Shit. I stood on the stairs with a pile of books in my arms as the little wheels clickclickclicked towards the inevitable We Cannot Cope scream and flail routine.*
I happened to look down on one of the books I held in my arms and saw it was an introduction to how to translate poetry. I took this course once and the lecturer used her own doctorate thesis (extended into a book) to teach the class from. I detested the class, the lecturer and the book. Why did I still have it? Why did I still have all the books for classes that I hated? In fact, why did I still have books from a time where, actually, I wasn't really happy? Why was I stressing about finding a place for books I'd never read again?
Something inside my head went 'twang'.
We will draw a veil over the hours that followed (if only because I went into a zone for a while).
At the bottom of the stairs we now see three cardboard boxes full of ripped up textbooks, fantasy, science fiction and non-fiction books. Some people will say I should have sold them, or given them away or something, but they were in my way and it was time for them to go and tearing certain books to shreds was so incredibly emotionally satisfying I almost needed a cigarette afterwards.
I've kept the literature and sociolinguistic books because I have a great fondness for both fields. Reference books were never in doubt and they're still here. Any other textbooks belonging to my university studies have gone and so have quite a few older books I'd been hanging on to.
Once I finished tearing up books (oh gods, my hands and arms are going to hate me in the morning), I tidied up and started unpacking my bedroom. I now have a bed! Well, it's a mattress on the floor, but it has all my pillows on it and a duvet can be thrown over it, so it is now my bedroom. I have a nest! Now all I need is a proper extension lead and I can set up the relevant electronic stuff so it can be the geek-nest I want it to be. Yay!
*This routine has occurred several times since I've moved and usually ends with me on the bed sulking and lamenting that I am still unpacking. I have always been unpacking. I will never be unpacked and this will never be my home. Woe is me. Life is darkness and despair.**
**I dislike unpacking.
I needed to make a lot of space if I wanted to unpack all my books (including my old study books). I didn't have any space to make more space. Shit. I stood on the stairs with a pile of books in my arms as the little wheels clickclickclicked towards the inevitable We Cannot Cope scream and flail routine.*
I happened to look down on one of the books I held in my arms and saw it was an introduction to how to translate poetry. I took this course once and the lecturer used her own doctorate thesis (extended into a book) to teach the class from. I detested the class, the lecturer and the book. Why did I still have it? Why did I still have all the books for classes that I hated? In fact, why did I still have books from a time where, actually, I wasn't really happy? Why was I stressing about finding a place for books I'd never read again?
Something inside my head went 'twang'.
We will draw a veil over the hours that followed (if only because I went into a zone for a while).
At the bottom of the stairs we now see three cardboard boxes full of ripped up textbooks, fantasy, science fiction and non-fiction books. Some people will say I should have sold them, or given them away or something, but they were in my way and it was time for them to go and tearing certain books to shreds was so incredibly emotionally satisfying I almost needed a cigarette afterwards.
I've kept the literature and sociolinguistic books because I have a great fondness for both fields. Reference books were never in doubt and they're still here. Any other textbooks belonging to my university studies have gone and so have quite a few older books I'd been hanging on to.
Once I finished tearing up books (oh gods, my hands and arms are going to hate me in the morning), I tidied up and started unpacking my bedroom. I now have a bed! Well, it's a mattress on the floor, but it has all my pillows on it and a duvet can be thrown over it, so it is now my bedroom. I have a nest! Now all I need is a proper extension lead and I can set up the relevant electronic stuff so it can be the geek-nest I want it to be. Yay!
*This routine has occurred several times since I've moved and usually ends with me on the bed sulking and lamenting that I am still unpacking. I have always been unpacking. I will never be unpacked and this will never be my home. Woe is me. Life is darkness and despair.**
**I dislike unpacking.
