I've started to read more. A lot more. I always have a book with me. Always. I read while walking, and I read while riding the bus. I have finished several books this month already. Like many several. Like 10 or something. Maybe that's an exaggeration. But I have finished at least five. Five's not bad. Five's a good number. Maybe I should keep track? That would take time. Time that could be better spent reading.

Reading while walking is interesting. A man said to me once "Reading and listening to music at the same time, now that takes skill!" and I didn't bother mentioning to him that the white noise of music, especially when that music is the same 20 songs played over and over, acts mostly as a filter, drowning out the conversation and the drumming of the city and the gross habits of the commuters, improving my ability to read while subconsciously scanning the sidewalk ahead for shoes or curbs the bases of sign posts.

It didn't take me long to stop worrying about running into people, in fact. Now rather than look up to make eye contact and avoid a crash, I simply slow down a little, almost imperceptibly, but enough for the offender to sidestep out of my path. I justify my relentless march with the consolation that if I ever do run into someone, it will be as much their fault as mine. And I've got a book in my hands! What's their excuse? Anyway, what's the worst that could happen.

I suppose someone could knock the book out of my hand onto the concrete, damaging the spine or bending the pages. Or maybe scalding coffee pours all over it, ruining it three times; once by soaking the pages, once by staining them the color of spilled coffee, shit brown, and once by the smell, that which I associate with a lack of willpower and habit forming weakness. Regardless, the book will have to be given away, or thrown away. All the books I enjoy owning are in pristine condition.

The rest I have no interest in owning, or even seeing. Bent pages, creased spines, frayed edges, they give a book the look cheapness that I can't disassociate from the writing inside. A book that looks bad will contain a story that is bad, in my mind, like dirty, cheap yard sale editions of Danielle Steele or Dean Koontz. Old, tattered paperbacks have the look of a hospital waiting room, or a free hotel library: a look of sickness. Of course I freely admit I am somewhat ... excessive, in this regard.

Because of this, I rarely lend out books. I do tend to buy people a lot of books, as a result. These benefactors of this pristine book obsession of mine have no doubt thought I was being excessive in my gift giving. Little did they know it was, for the most part, a matter of selfishness! And when I do lend out books, I hand them over with a queasy feeling, like handing over the keys to your new car... and then a sigh of resignation. "It's just a book," I tell myself.

I can always buy a new one.

Mitch out.

ps: If you missed it, Tim recommends you check out my update 2009-06-23: $website_update = true;

pps: Some great photos of the 2009 Glastonbury Festival.