my paper blanket

My life is paper chaos. I've decided that paper is to blame for everything that’s off kilter in my life. Paper is my security blanket. They’re my reference, though I can rarely find what I need. My books are a source of escape. My journals and writings are the crazy insides of my brain splurted out on paper.

So, needless to say, I have a crazy obsession with books and papers, and I am extremely protective and private with them. Last week I brought home two boxes of books that I'd left at my parents house for safe keeping when I moved. I was heartbroken. Half of the books, my precious books, the pages are mildewed and warped. I'm sorry Nietzsche, Elliott, and Uncle Remus; I've failed you. I didn’t fight hard enough to save you from being moved to the basement.

Then, I got a call from my mother. I was in the middle of a crazy, hectic day at work.
“Hi, how’ve you been? Are you busy? I'm sorry we didn’t get much of a chance to talk on Sunday.” she said.
What’s the point, mom? Get to the freakin’ point, I thought, but replied, “Yeah, Mom, I'm really busy right now. What's up?”
“Would you be able to come by the house after work and go through some of the stuff on the back porch?” I think she could hear the cogs in my brain working to find a way out. Then she threw the punch, “I left the windows on the back porch open last night during the storm. I tried to soak up as much of the water as I could …”

I'm sure she said more. All I was thinking, my papers! My work! Most of my stuff that my mom had relegated to the back porch was of little importance to me. But there was one box that I cared about. It had my papers, stories, and writings from my teen years. My first story on the school newspaper. My first fiction writings. The work that I was proud of.

My dad was there when I got home. Mom wasn’t, and for her safety, that was a very good thing. I went to survey the wreckage, it wasn’t horrible, the papers are warped and the ink has run on some, but on the whole it was OK. I thought I could forgive my mom for pushing my belongings to the far corners where she wouldn’t want hers. Then, I saw my high school journal. It wasn’t wet. It wasn’t damaged. But it was out. Three important notes: I'm very private with my writings, my mom’s a bit nosey, and our relationship in high school was far from good. She would not like what is written in there; I'm afraid to even look to see what is written in there.

Back in the house, I saw that my mom has been “rearranging” some of my other belongings, belongings that I had already arranged in logically in boxes. Did I mention that I'm extremely private with my writings and belongings?
“That’s it,” I said to my dad. “Everything goes in my car.” And with that my dad and I loaded whatever of mine we could find into my car and his truck. My dad is amazing. He puts up with so much from my mother and me. Thanks, dad, for all your help.

No, I didn't have room for it all in my apartment. Yes, my ultra-clean roomie could become very annoyed with me. But I no longer cared. My possessions are now fully in my possession, and out of my mother’s range. She can now find something else to blame the clutter on. Sorry, Dad, you’re next.

My roommate and I unpacked box after box of books. I had forgotten just how many books I own. (I have even more, my favorite childhood books wait safely in my dad’s closet.) After unpacking: categorizing and grouping! I'm sick; I love organizing, and over organizing.

Sorry for the rant; I'd just forgotten how much I love my books. I used to be a crazy reader. I read as if I had a hardcore addiction to the ink fumes. What happened?

Today’s tie-in quotes are from the Read or Die OVA:
Nancy aka Ms. Deep: In real life, love takes a different course than from books. What do you think? A love that you want with no future or a love that you don’t mind with a future … Which one is better?”
Yomiko aka The Paper: “I have an answer for the question you asked earlier. Umm … I think true love is much more wonderful. Although there may be painful things, no matter what kind of love it is, you can be the heroine.”