Unpacking books is simultaneously the most dangerous and most space-effiecient task one can engage in after a move. If you’re anything like me, most of your possessions are books. There are boxes upon boxes of them in my living room, in the back bedroom now dubbed “the study,” in all the other bedrooms, and a few that I’m reading right there on the bathroom counter. Enshelving them all is top priority.
So I sat down today and sliced into one of the boxes. Dangerous though this task is, I managed not to cut myself. Instead, I removed the top layer of books, and began sorting titles. There was my collection of Transmetropolitan, followed by some anthropology text books, and a book of Margaret Atwood’s poetry. I’d been feeling a little deprived of poetry, so I cracked it open and read a few. An hour later, I returned to my sorting only to find my copy of Hans Christian Andersen’s tales. i had wanted to write a piece about his quite obvious belief in children’s purity and goodness, which I find bothersome, so I reread “The Little Mermaid.” After an hour and a half of that, I unearthed a bunch of books I’d been holding aside for a research project of mine, about tabletop gaming, identity, world design, and audience— they were collections of essays and research— anthropological, sociological, and literary takes— on gaming as a cultural act. I was going to blog about this stuff anyway, so why not get started on the research?
Four hours later, I was still lolling on the floor, books strewn about me, and the box only half empty. Consider yourselves warned.