of course, you can't get rid of all the books you dislike. where would you stop?

removing all the books I *actively dislike* from my office. what to do with them? take them home? I don't think I will like them there either. and I  know of no second hand book shops here, no charity bins, and I have no car to get them to the places I don't know. it seems like space is so tight here there is no room for things that much unloved.

there was that bang from the street or the crack of the floor board, whatever, and something I forgot to mention was that I looked very closely in that layer of sound, the vibration, and there in the bevel he was. not really him just the black arm, the black arm of his big black canvas jacket and moving down like he was grabbing someone by the collar. you're going to need salt. salt for the road. I didn't know whether it would be pools of light from the street lamps lighting up the blood or the exploded ceramic that smelled like fish and the fire smashing along the downed line. he didn't tell me much just his arm going down down into the fur, holding down the animal.

the red dog nudges me, licks my hand, moves its fat muzzle in towards my face. I don't know how long I've been sleeping; my head feels thick, lightly poisoned. the first thing is to check the edge of the mirror, the bevel. I stagger up. I go first to the far northern corner of the room, my hand wedged under the dog's collar, in the warm fur. this means my hand is just normal; it's just normal. from here I can lean forward while the dog leans into me; the bevel is clean, silver. I think it is reflecting the light from the window - it's silver out there too, like it is very early morning. or dusk. the house is completely silent. the dog huffs. we walk forward, a half step. I lean to the mirror, lean side to side. there is nothing in the bevel but silver. a half step; it's silver. we will cover the room this way, my head throbbing and with each step the dog shuffling a little too far forward, then back again to align himself.

we have the room two-thirds covered - the bevel has turned a soft rose- when there's a loud bang outside, a car backfiring. we turn to the window and it's covered with moisture now, fuzzy so that nothing is visible out there. the dog whines. we will go out. but not disturb the children, who would disturb the adults - the kids are spread over the couches in the living room to allow us the privacy of this room.  I pull up the sash, quiet as I can. Jose needs to be persuaded to clamber out behind me but we do it.

headphones only

Somehow it happened that my bookshelves filled up with books I don't much like or care about. not 'somehow', but quite simply - when someone gave me a book that I loved, or I borrowed one and loved it and then bought it, it was almost inevitable that somewhere along the line I would want to lend it to someone else. and then they would keep it, and I would forget - almost entirely. if the book did flash into my mind I would wonder where it was, and have no idea who I might have lent it to. and because I mostly remember just what I can see, those flashes are rare. a number of these books have dedications in them - so I wonder who has my copies of Laurie Lee's Cider with Rosie, or John Scott's What I have Written and Before I Wake, or Coetzee's Waiting for the Barbarians, knowing from the flyleaves that they are mine and that they mark something. Two copies of Christina Stead's The Man Who Loved Children have gone, and now I have a pact with myself not to lend the third copy out. Someone has the very well worn copy of The English Patient that I used to write my honours thesis. I guess whoever those people are, I cared about them enough to want to give them something to read.

And then on the other side, I have never really felt secure enough to spend money on books, and rarely relax in bookshops. Much of what stays with me are the gifts from people who didn't know me well, the inherited books, the bargain table risks, the course fillers, the review books, books bought to help me assess theses and so on.

Now that I have a little money to think I think - if you are the sort of person who only remembers what you can see, this is a bad way to live. To give away what you love and keep what you don't, looking every day at drudge thoughts, drudge moments. And now I have the room to feel embarrassed about it. So lately I'm getting into this habit - that when a lost book flashes into my mind I go to an online bookshop and get it. I've decided that it doesn't matter too much whether I would love it now, just that I did love it, and that makes it worth having around.

among today's purchases are A High Wind in Jamaica, and The Virgin Suicides, and a proper edition of Emily Dickinson. My 1940-something Selected with bastardized punctuation is all I have for now. It has a very old note in it that reads - "Keep this. I don't want it. Are you sure it was Dickinson and not Edna Maillant (?) - the American poet you liked? One or two nice ones here."