My first true loves …
BOOKS
Books make me happy.
Really, they make me more than happy.
They enrich my life in so many ways.
They inspire me. They are my friends. They are my comfort. They are my pleasure.
Once I rented a room in a sketchy part of L.A. based on the home’s abundance of books.
I had found a card tacked near the bathroom of an artsy coffeehouse advertising the room for rent.
The day of my appointment to view it, I hesitantly walked up the house’s stone steps, wary because of the rough neighborhood around it. Through a double dead-bolted screen door with thick bars, I saw a small woman with long red hair and a miniskirt vigorously vacuuming the living room rug.
Beneath a fringe of red bangs, she wore dark sunglasses. A cigarette hung from one corner of her mouth.
After a few minutes of knocking and ringing the doorbell, she noticed me.
Inside the front door, a small living room had an upright piano against one wall. On the opposite wall hung an art piece her famous father had made. It was the silhouette of a shapely woman made from spray painted silver cigarette butts.
As she showed me around, the woman never removed her dark glasses.
I had stepped into another world.
What ultimately sold me were the words that came out of her mouth as she directed me to a bedroom door:
“And this is our nonfiction library.”
Bookshelves from floor to ceiling lined every wall.
By the time she directed me to the fiction library (two minutes later), I was writing out a check.
I moved in that weekend.
It was an easy move. I had been staying with a friend and all my belongings were already in my car.
My large upstairs bedroom engulfed my few belongings.
On one wall I set up my radio, stacking CDs beside it on the floor. I propped a few of my religious themed red candles with saints and the Virgin Mary on the window sills.
My clothes hung in the closet above a footlocker that contained a few mementos.
I placed my roll-up futon bed in the middle of the floor. Right near where my head would lie, against the floor on one wall, I lined up all my books — Anais Nin, Hemingway, Jack Kerouac, Isak Dineson, Baudelaire, Tom Wolfe, Umberto Eco, Truman Capote, Hermann Hess, Ayn Rand, S.E. Hinton — so they would be the first things my eyes saw upon awakening.




























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