Pompitous

What do you keep with you?
What stays when everything else is put away?
How do you make your workspaces home?
How do you shelter yourself against the rains?


The endorphins are gone. The high has passed. Four days ago I couldn't be any more topside. Four days ago I shattered my own paces, made my own declarations, and curb-slid Sisyphus out of my consciousness forever. Four days ago I kissed you so deeply that you moaned for more, and felt the fear of loving me all over again.

Four days later it's raining again,
and I can't seem to make it stop.
Almost by reflex yesterday I picked up the faded copy of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass that I keep in the backpack. The copyright says 1971 - but it's been mine for as long as I can remember.

The pages are worn. Spines crack and buckle. There's a rip growing on the back cover that threatens to swallow the entire thing if I'm not careful, and two more on the front - like scars forgotten, cutting over the queen of hearts as she orders Alice's head removed.

How many times have I read this?
How many times has this been there for me?

I know the romance is in hardback books. I know the true ninth gate only opens through leather bindings, embossed edges, and original printings, but that's not where I live. My home is in paperbacks -- folded and torn, pages faded until they feel like down pillows against the whorls of your fingertips.

Alice is like that.
There are places it falls open to when you set it on a table. There are pages missing corners folded once too often. It's a home. A comfortable blanket -- even with it's flaws of pretentiousness and archetype. Who knows, maybe that's why I like it so much.

It seemed kneejerk last month when I found myself wanting to re-read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (although it's probably about time for my annual visit anyways), but I solved my own problem by already having packed it into a box somewhere. I used to keep it with me at work, but people wanted to borrow it too much and it's too good of a read for some people to bring back (are there even words to express just how much I hate book borrowers who turn into book keepers?)

But Alice is in my bag.
Alice stays with me.
We see the Lucy tonight. I don't even know what to expect. Last Saturday nine miles high everything seemed clear. But now it's like the shadows are stretching. Now the weight on my shoulders grows heavier every day.

...it's gonna be like this for a while, I think.

But maybe that's what needs to happen
before I can come out on the other side...
"Come back!" the Caterpillar called after her. "I've something important to say!"
This sounded promising, certainly: Alice turned and came back again.
"Keep your temper," said the Caterpillar.
"Is that all?" said Alice, swallowing down her anger as well as she could.

        "No," said the Caterpillar.
[Listening to: Steve Miller, "The Joker"]

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