books, writing

les livres arrivent

Robert brought the boxes with my books in them up from Indianapolis today. (That line feels like some kind of very-long-winded meter, but I can’t match it. Less peripatetic, more ptero-dactylic.)

This was a surprise. I didn’t expect them until later on. But all of my books are here in the same city, in the same place, with me. If I wanted to, I could ride my bike a mile east, lakeward right now, break open the black Isuzu Trooper, and read every one of them. Right now. I could sit on the bumper, in the light of the open door, with Tom Stoppard and Flaubert and Brian Teare spread all around me and read until morning. They will wait there like eggs in their box-shells, waiting to hatch, until Ee and I move into our new apartment, on Sept. 1st. So soon!

I haven’t seen them from April 2007 on. For the whole year of assistant directing, they lived in Menlo Park, and I lived everywhere but there.

Existing without them hurt very much at first, and I have to write something more on that subject. But it was ultimately a powerful choice to let them all go. Helped me to understand their role in my life. I will write more on this.