In my pocket

There are two distinct ways I recognize a good book.

#1: I try to save it.

I read a couple pages, or maybe two, or sometimes only half a page and then I shut the book and place it somewhere Safe. I tuck it away in my shoulder bag, or place it on lap just next to my stomach. When I was in Antarctica, a safe spot was usually on my lap. Sitting in the drivers seat of Van 219 or Delta 498 or Ivan, I would snuggle my precious book as close as I could to my stomach, right on top my lined Carhartt overalls, my capilene 4 long johns, and my silk long under ware. (I liked wearing heaps of layers, even when my colleagues insisted that the vans were sooo warm, I persisted. Toasty, I prefer toasty.) Then, I would then gaze out onto the ice shelf deeply enjoying my most recent thought or the feeling that arose in my chest during that last passage. Either that, or I would immediately pick up my journal or a letter writing pad and start what almost always became a long somewhat purposeful rambling of thoughts.

The more I liked a book the longer it took to read and the more letters I wrote.

Right now I am reading, "Eat, Pray, Love". It's one of those books that's so honest it picked a cheesy title. A title that, after having been in Japan, I feel I should probably cover up with a book cover so that I can capture the absolutely enjoyable book away from criticism. I mean, do I really want to reveal my joy when all the Tokyo train passengers are hiding their books from me? Why be that generous, right? But really, I don't care a hoot about what they think...or what the other passengers on this flight to Beijing feel about my book title. I just take a good savory bite and then slide it right underneath my sternum, in between my stomach and the strap of my shoulder bag, and I write.

Which brings me to the second way I know I love a book:

#2: When reading, I get the urge to write with such an intense insatiable force that I absolutely can not finish reading the sentence.

Often, with the best books, the inspiration is so strong that I struggle to ever finish the book. I spend so much time processing, piecing, accumulating, and arranging words (in my mind, on paper, on a napkin, on a slew of very tiny sheets of paper) that months later, when I realize I am only on page 35, I have to laugh. It's my only option.

The first time I became aware of this predicament was months after I began reading Annie Dillard's book Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. Some of my friends have complained that her books are overwhelmed with description. I soaked every detail into my bones. In fact, I liked Chapter 2, "On Seeing" so much that I wanted everyone to read it. Or, more importantly, I wanted everyone to see the world with the attention she gave it. So, I photocopied the chapter minimizing the text to 8 pt. font. Then, I cut her words apart. Using scotch tape, I starting attaching the words to overlooked details all throughout my neighborhood. There were thousands. I kept them in a little plastic zip lock and always carried them with me. For two months I put up at least 5 a day. I did it on the sly, when no one was looking, and hardly told anyone about the mission. Not because I was trying to keep it a secret but rather because I didn't realize it was a sort of odd, or sometimes even compulsive thing to do.

My brother always gave me a hard time about Annie Dillard's book, but in a sort of endearing way. He would joke about it in conversation, usually after I proclaimed: "well, I started that book," or "was that book good, I began it but never finished." He was the one who revealed to me that I save books. I never did finish "Pilgrim at Tinker Creek" but I love it.

Which brings me to the other book I am reading now--in between onsens and bike rides, in between sleep and awake, in between planes, and on buses--

39 Microlectures: In Proximity of Performance by Matthew Goulish.

I am sure you may have noticed. I have been quoting that fellow. In fact, I find it so inspiring that in three weeks, reading it for nearly an hour or two a day, I am only on page 33. I keep writing. He keeps reading my thoughts. I wonder how he got to them before I did.