Can I be super honest? Of course I can...
I am wary of moving out. Not because of sky-rocketing costs of housing, psychotic potential roomies or the unreliability of the job market or even the immovability of my mountain of shoes.
It's because of my book collection.
See, I recently went on a date with a writer. Who I'm sure played down the witticisms during our two hour coffee, but may wield them mercilessly in the future. (if he ever calls) Aside from now understanding that my previous broken eHeart was from a donkey that they must have put on the site to keep me coming back to spend more money, my dating prospects are often few and far between. (the one drawback of theater) It was then that a paltry realization dawned, I have shit on a shelf when it comes to my reading material.
Ok, so I do have a copy of the Great Gatsby and I read Salinger religiously. But I also have copies of VC Andrews and a hardbound copy of a Jean M. Auel book (yes, yes I do). An entire collection of Anne McCaffrey - that I love, but is probably panned by the rest of the sci-fi world, save for her sheer prolific abilities. It gets better. I have psychoanalysis of fashion trends ie. one woman's story of how she stopped spending (
Her triumphant find is a silk Ann Taylor blouse at a thrift store for a holiday party that sounds like a suburban horrorfest. Beat my Anna Sui dress for $22 and we'll talk) How to Dating books, how to love yourself single books, how to love men books, how to strangle and hog tie men books. (I think that last one may have been a present). Maeve Binchy makes a prominent showing with three books, Helen Fielding with three.
I have chick lit.
I have romance novels.
I have Asian American literature (because I'm often confused by what my cultural roots are and the best way to get over that is to read about other people who are equally confused)
What does this say about me or my intellectual abilities? I think it proabably says more about my intellectual standards than anything.
But when I think about the books that people consider "epic" writing - books like War and Peace, Anna Karenina, Slaughterhouse, Animal Farm...I cringe. Because while I will read those novels for educational purposes, I'd rather curl up with a set of Vogues and Peoples. Embarrassing as that is, reading is a pleasurable pastime of mine not a form of literary torture.
The good:Franny & Zooey
Catcher in the Rye (very threadbare)
Nine Stories
I Lay Down by the River Piedra
The Inner Voice
The Great Gatsby
Shakespeare Vol. 1
Antigone
Proof
Fast Food Nation
Wicked
All 7 Harry Potter books
Lord of the Rings trilogy
Architecture books
Middling/Suspicious:The Prophet - Kahlil Gibran
The Alchemist
Making it on Broadway
Eat, Pray, Love
The Grace of Great Things
Be Here Now
AsAm Lit
Total Dealbreakers:Aforementioned Jean M. Auel books
VC Andrews
Who Are You? (type psychoanalysis books)
So still, I believe the good outweighs the bad. At least in my definition of good. But can you imagine the reckless combination of these things all stirred into one large melting pot? Can you also imagine trying to justify "Secrets of the Morning" or "The Dummies Guide to Dating 101" to a potential roomate or dating prospect who prefers the gritty realism of the Grapes of Wrath? How will Moby Dick compare to Flowers in the Attic?
And then there is the blog. At what point do you introduce the person you are dating to the mindless thoughts you put out on the internet? Do you start to scrutinize the quality of your writing? Stop posting your Star Wars analysis or Start to use long forgotten SAT words? Or do you say fuckitall, if they don't like the way you think then they certainly aren't going to like the way I am in bed...etc. et al.?
Then I realized I met said writer at an all night diner while wearing a tiara and knee high patent leather platform boots.
And somehow, I don't think he'll actually give a rat's ass about my book collection.
Was so bummed to hear today that Pearl Art and Craft on Market is closing (across the street from the Warfield for you musicophiles). Pearl made up a good part of my youthful desire to create. When I was in school - it was the end of the rainbow for anything my crazy professors might send us looking for. They seemed to have a cornucopia of magic spilling off its shelves in a colorful array of tools. It was where the "real" artists in the city went to shop. The store that would have the obscure inks or tools that I was looking for. Not the pristinely sanitized mod white spaces of Utrecht or the overpriced Marin hobbyist store that is all that Flax stands for; Pearl was the real nitty gritty. Where you could find etching tools and amazing pressed papers from places like Fiji and France. Sable hair brushes, huge Japanese boar head brushes. Every tool or supply you could ever think of were held 'neath the walls of this three tiered giant. If you learned to navigate its hearty walls - you were a king. Hours could pass and you would emerge with infinitely valuable treasures. It was the Berkeley Bowl West of art stores. Just as affordable and just as varied. And now it's gone.
