Welcome back, Re:Print!
Three weeks later, and we’re back online. But, you know, amid the confusion surrounding my recent house-move, lack of co-operation from both my Internet provider and my apparently exhausted motherboard, and fear that Re:Print would never again see the light of day, there was an upside. I got to read—a lot. Instead of waking up each morning and heading straight for the office, I made myself a cup of hot Milo, grabbed my new blanket (thanks Trish!), plonked on the couch, and read. Book after book after book. For the first time in years, I didn’t have to struggle to find reading time. It’s been sensational. And I’ve decided to stick to the pattern—emails to be checked the night before; mornings to be spent in my blanket and the company of a book. It helps that my surroundings now include paintings on the wall, clean carpets, and the open air of a big, beautiful new house—decidedly different from the three-room-flat-with-ant-problem-behind-the-busy-restaurant I used to try and read in.
Fulci is overwhelmed.
The other cool thing about the move has been about re-acquaintance. My lack of living space has meant that my ever-growing library has been kept in stacks around the house, stuffed into bookcases three-deep, and buried away in my parents’ garage in tubs meant for clothing and laundry. Now, because I’m the proud owner of my own office, I’ve got room to house the lot. I loathed packing the heavy monsters, but unpacking them has been an unexpected dream. I found books read and filed away, books bought and never properly organised, books acquired and promptly forgotten. Here they all were—from an old copy of Tom Sawyer, to The First Wives Club, novelisations of Gremlins and The Eyes of Laura Mars, weirdo horror books like Crawlspace and The Last of the Crazy People. I found my collection of Outsiders paperbacks, my dog-eared copy of That Night, and even my grandfather’s Bible with an inscription in front dated 25-12-1927. Pouring through the stacks, I found myself remembering little stories connected with those books—when I got them, where, and why. I remembered the days when I could read endlessly, when there were no emails. It’s been a re-acquaintance as much with myself as my library.
Now, for the fun part—the organising. And to purchase shelves, to finally catalogue the collection as it rightfully should be. My books, like me, deserve some room to move.