Today, after living in this house for three years, I’ve finally got some bookcases coming. I’ve looked at every catalogue, gone to every second hand store, bought and returned two different cases. I found a young man who can build anything and he designed a bookcase that will perfectly fit my wall, and the trim will match the trim about the window. I already know that I will be sad to see the piles of books on the floors go. I hate change of any kind, even for the better. I don’t hate it exactly, I just get tremendously attached to certain things being a certain way. I have a fantasy to paint them the way Virginia Woolf painted hers. Or maybe Vanessa Bell painted them, but the sides were decorated with harlequin panes and I remember being completely delighted by them. But I’m too much of a pussy. Plus I can’t paint. When I was pregnant I made the mistake of trying to paint a dresser and trompe l’oeil a side table.
I know I’ve talked about bookcases before; but it’s the closest thing I’ve got to a soul.
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