On Books (draft)

Before recent years, my dad, as he had told, had only been to a therapist once before, in college. The therapist, apparently, told him he "hated books" and he never went back. I never fully understood why he never went back - he told the story in a real Gemini way (note to self to make a glossary of terms) that highlights his unique quirks but lack of emotional understanding (or need for it). My dad has gotten along quite well in life being the person he is. He began teaching at the same school that made me into the mess I am today right from college, and has taught there ever since. English and History are his subjects, and books are his true love. I suppose one day he figured out what the therapist meant, because he now realizes his overwhelming desire to read ALL the books causes him anxiety. And yet, his anxiety drives and disciplines him. He literally reads all the books. The bridge between that man and this girl right here is a long one. I love books. I have a lot of them. I love to keep them around me, rearrange them, browse them, bury myself in them for brief flashes, copy quotes from them, carry them with me with the best of intentions, and honor them in every way besides actually reading them cover to cover. I mean I am a book person. I love the presence of them, the smell of them, the feel of them, but most of all the magnitude of them and the significance of what they hold. They're like people. Well, they are people. I love bookstores. Everything about them. Somehow, I think I love them as much as record stores. Something about the physicality of all those numbers of bound pages exceeds vinyl and plastic discs. I always chose a record store over a book store but why? Because I hate books. I don't know exactly when it started. It might have been around the fourth grade, when we started reading real books in school (i.e., outside of school, for homework). The seed might have been planted earlier, when every time I couldn't do what I wanted (say, get a ride 30-45 minutes away for a "play date", or, the weather barred me from playing outside), my dad would enthusiastically suggest "Read a book!) Go fuck yourself, Dad! Just kidding. But that was the general feeling.