Hypothetical Bathrooms

An old man stopped me in the library yesterday, when he saw I was carrying well over the amount of books that someone with any notion of the time it takes to soak in a book should be carrying. You only get to check them out for so long, I'm sure he thought; and surely anyone with a schedule can only handle so much edifying reading in a day. 

The man commented on my books: asking why so many, and trying to mask his confusion (paralleled closely with his bemusement) as I fumbled through what I thought was an adequate explanation of the kind of break I'm having from school. I think he nodded his head to get me to stop saying so many words. 

I transferred half of the books to my other hand, hoping that by spacing them out, I would somehow distract the closely-packed readers and browsers in the small library from asking similar questions.

 Whenever I walk in a library, I am overcome by this overwhelming sense of anticipation at the amounts of stimulating possibilities. All of a sudden I want nothing more than to learn how to make a quilt, and master the Greek alphabet, and to conquer the classics in one sitting while deciphering the differences between ceramic and acrylic tile for my hypothetical bathroom floor. I want to become a writer, and a poet, and to be an expert at collecting antique coins and know all there is to know about the Black Widow Spider. Goodness, it frustrates me. 

I get frustrated walking into a library. I walk in, and I pick up all the books I can about all the subjects I desire desperately to drown in. With the giddiness of a five-year-old, I determine to be washed away by the colors and words and possibilities of pages soaked in knowledge that I somehow thought, before entering the library, I could never have. 

But the frustrating thing that I find, every time I do this, is that I can never, no matter how hard I try, come up with enough time to be the absorptive sponge I yearn to be. There. Is. Never. Enough. Or maybe I don't make enough time. Or maybe I realize later that, realistically, one book will never teach me all I need to know on the Greek alphabet --- so what's the use? 

This is why I so earnestly fumbled for words when the old man approached me.

I was so irritatingly sure that, somehow, he could see right through all my wonderful intentions, right down to the stupid reality of time, and my lack of drive and will. 

I think sometimes I love the idea of knowledge better than the fact of knowledge itself. How I long to acquire the Sci-Fi device that transports all information from a book directly into your brain at the flick of a wrist. I would be the best grocery store checker-outer. 

I brought this book (pictured below) home with me yesterday. 

The title hooked me right away, because I think I am falling in love with the fact that I get to, quite literally, "stay put" for the next month, before going to Sydney. For the first time in a long time, I have the opportunity to be as much of a sponge as I'll allow myself to be, with time out of the way as a belligerent barrier.

How I long for this month to inch along at the pace of a breakfast on a Saturday morning. For it to linger, and to last, and to fill me fully for what is to come.