scraps of paper; scrawl

Maps, a little text, odd browsing here and there; dipping in for a bit then shelving. It has been said, indeed it must be said, that I have something of a book fetish. Not just books to read, but so too a desire for books as objects; having nice looking books on the shelf. A leather bound Shorter, rather than the standard, leather bound and rice paper pages for Lord of the Rings, nevermind fascinating books that I cannot read. Some things endlessly fascinating, some things instantly dismissed, “not my cup of tea”. I like maps, I don’t know why I like maps but I do, especially olde worlde (the extra e is part of the attraction) with ornate framings. As part of the packing of my things (house is about to hit the market), I moved a couple of old canvas maps that hung on the wall at my primary school. I’d rescued them from the bin, but have yet to display them, or even have the requiste wall space to do so. One day perhaps. My girlfriend sent me a reference to a new book on maps from the NLA. Maps are an essential part of my existence: finding my way, losing my way, appreciating different ways, discovering new directions. Don Watson has a new book out, which is a map of sorts, of his journey in America and his exploration of the american psyche. It felt nice in the hand, to touch, to browse. Books on a shelf, the book in front of you, to the side, underneath, stacked on top. A hand, a mind…reaching.

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