The Bookshelf

Author's note: Due to the increasing magnitude of my insomnia, I will be cataloging my adventures in red-eyed coffee buzzes the next couple of weeks for future reflection

Insomnia isn't a disorder, it's a condition.

Not alphabetically, but by class. Not in the Marxist sense. By class taken, chronologically, down to the very scheduling for same-day classes. Each book in the order it was read. Will reference memory if adequate, will reference blackboard if necessary and possible.

It's not neurosis at this hour, it's therapy. Although I think the difference between the two comes down to the insurance claim. Each book, in place by approximate date of exposure.

Reach back to that first English class. The one with the old guy. A guest lecturer from SCC. the students were more interested in me than him. Shock value goes along way. The problem is eventually you can't top yourself.

Here's where I re-found god, here's where I re-lost him. Not as violently this time. The first time I lost god it was like losing The Hope Diamond. The second time it was like losing a pen cap.

This isn't aesthetically pleasing, the shelf becomes a skyline. My hard-covered copy of Sylvia Plath's Ariel absolutely dwarfs Woman Hollering Creek. So on and so forth until the shelves are jagged, occasionally smoothed out in long stretched.

English 253, 352, 487, 302, on and on the last four years of my life. The poetics of recall. Here's the book I read when I met her. Here's the one I was reading when we broke up, her insights were always better, and here's what I read that reminded me of that.

The incandescent bulb is glaring, I swear to you, fucking glaring. Now they're in a pile around me. When did I get this dictionary? Well, time line or not it's going at the bottom. I'll have a separate shelf. And what about those books from before college? I couldn't time them if my mind depended on it. I'll try anyway. Did I like Steinbeck before or after Palahnuk?

The shelves are empty and the computer displays the syllabus from some class three years ago. Right, right right. How silly; Measure for Measure THEN Much Ado About Nothing THEN The Tempest.

Around and around and around. Each boook carefully chosen out of the pile. Opened (maybe for the first time in years) each page rushes by, looking for underlines, notes, quotes from songs I like or liked. Sleep would feel better, but then I'd reminisce.

Now cancer's a factor. I'm smoking. Chain-chimney-dragon-Neko-Case- murder-weapon smoking. This is the most control I have right now and I'll take it like a rez dog takes food. And what about duplicates? From those books I moronically sold back, regretted, and re-bought? Oh these author's are too obscure. They deserve this. I'll count it as the original.

The Anthology I attacked with gusto for a month before cold despair took the place of malevolent optimism. I got a B, even though I missed about eight class periods. Well, hell, this is an English department after all...

And these whim books, things I bought in a momentary epiphany of ignorance before coming to terms with it and moving onto other books. I swear on my grandfathers' graves, my First Communion Rosary, and my bank account I'll read them, all of them. Every word. Someday, someday, someday.

But the sunrise reminds me of the futility, these class need to be attended and will proceed regardless of how awake I am. I strap on my backpack and hope my cell phone's alarm is enough.