Paper and Ink

I spent the day as most days off should be spent. Late to rise, a quick run, coffee and a bagel with family then a good movie. Home to put away laundry, watch another movie and then a task of collecting and cleaning out books to sell. I found and began reading a book I've been putting off and saving - but I just can't get into it. I find my mind sometimes feels like it moves through genres and places in time life television channels...and it is currently not to set to a suburban-locked and quirky family post-9/11. The hard part is figuring out what channel it actually IS set to. Victorian England? 17th century Israel? Chick-lit circa Bridget Jones? I have a box full of books I have acquired over the better part of the last decade that I know I have no interest in reading again or keeping. However, that box is probably only comprised of about 10% of my current collection. I just can't bear to give the rest up. Some I am keeping because I know I'll reread them many times. Others I am keeping for reference that I may need someday. Some I haven't read yet but I want to. But most just remind me of something - a time spent abroad, a semester spent scribbling notes in the margins, an age that was marked by my obsession with it's hero, lines I'd hope to remember and use voiced by so many incredible female characters. These books are part of my soul. I think that's why I am so against the new technology of Kindles and Nooks. You cannot feel the weight of the ink YOU added while penning in notes about what you think the author meant when they said what they said. You cannot flip through the pages, see a coffee stain and remember the cafe you were sitting in when you spilled your latte. The books I refuse to give up are more than just paper and ink. They are the tangible memories of why I want to write. They exist and will go on with me because keeping them close helps me remember who I was, the innocence I had, the lessons I learned and the places I have been.