Books…I have books on art and creativity, books on playing the guitar, and books on songwriters. Tomes on lyrics and music, collections of poetry, and famous novels of the English language. Books with so many characters and thousands of words on the pages, teaching me, reminding me, about life’s twists, turns, and unexpected events, the beauty of everyday life, the quality of sunlight on a late autumn morning.
I sit waiting for my laundry while it is tumbled and tossed, agitated and stirred, before finally coming to rest in the washing machine. And while I wait, hearing only the light buzz in my ears and the scritching sound of my pen across the page as I write, I see my books in quiet sunlight. Some, leaning left or right, and others, the more conservative of the lot, sitting up straight and stiff like young soldiers. Still others, recognizing that it may be some considerable length of time before they are rescued from the shelf, have taken a more relaxed, leisurely posture, as if resigned to making the best of their time, and realizing as well that while they are thus reposed there really is no one to impress. It will only be upon the opening of their pages, perhaps by a curious visitor to the apartment that they will have any opportunity to speak, to shine, to teach.