In lieu of proper content, here are some shots from my favourite Book Off find (remembering the days when Vancouver had one – forever sleep, dear Book Off).
I’m all moved into my place, now – more or less unpacked, but still waiting for the new arrangement of objects to settle into cohesion. I think books look especially weird for the first couple of weeks, placed in a strange new order on strange new shelves. Like when you pick up an unfamiliar animal and try to perch it in your lap, and it just sits there all stiff and anxious (and possibly kind of hating you, because who the fuck are you anyway?).
As you might expect, I am obsessive about setting up my space. It feels like working on any project, where incorrect words or lines or colours feel intolerable. They harass you constantly, until you put them right. And in that sense, a home is like a summoning circle for whatever other work I do, here. If that pentagram has holes in it, then the demon either isn’t going to appear, or it’s going to show up and escape my powers and eat me right on the spot. Which is a good analogy, actually, and explains why it’s often just easier to shirk everything and eat peanut m&ms in front of the same fantasy novel you’ve read thirty five times already.
Anyway. Thanks to a basement full of grandparents’ furniture, and (even better) a patient, generous father with every large-scale power tool known to man, I am mostly well-equipped. But there are still a few things I need or could use, so an apartment want list will probably have to be my next order of business.