I am a bibliophile.
I remember how my first book, a gift from my war-hero uncle,opened not just one new world, but so many, more than any one person could explore in a mere lifetime.
Through the decades I acquired several thousands passed before my gaze; the local library in Niagara Falls, Ontario, was my world atlas, until I left town. Books, immediately, were my escape from the strong discomforts of anxiety, my first self-medication, long before I knew what needed to be fixed. The malady that came oh so close to destroying me; before it, and its cousin depression, were tamed.
The beautiful, silver haired, Miss Wilson, school librarian, taught us how to condition a new book, and to respect, especially, those that were contrary and caused confusion . I remember her classes, as I remember confirmation classes, both fed that spiritual aspect of me.
Books became necessary pavers on my path(s) through university and loves and marriages and rejection, and becoming an elder.
When my family became smithereens, hurtling from one another, with the speed of light; many books were scuttled, yet a few treasures were rescued. When I moved to this half-size apartment hundreds more were jettisoned, there were just too many to fit this bantam place.
There was just that slight glimmer of want, when I first heard of ebook readers, a desire grew slowly, and then a too quickly. Reviews made it clear that Kindle 3 was my future; it just took getting the money together, and I would be most modern book lover, brimming over once again.
Little things didn’t go well from that point; without thinking through the money part I ordered one. But then I didn’t have enough to carry me until my next pension check arrived; within ten minutes of placing the order I tried to reverse it, but was informed by Amazon that it was shipped and couldn’t be retrieved—ten minutes!
Expectation did rise as I considered maybe it really was a good thing, somehow I would find a way to live for the next ten days. Kindle Graphite arrived, the very next day, from Indiana. It certainly is friendly to senses of touch and sight, I liked holding it and looking at it. But what to do with the thing? I had ordered the wrong one; mine needed to be in specific wi-fi areas in order to become functional, the USB download would not work until I had done something with Amazon. Chicago Public Library uses a format that is not Kindle, it does work with the other readers though, an outside program would have to be loaded, that would translate books from other formats to Kindle-speak. So, I sat there, last night, with a dumb, mute gadget; feeling growing disappointment. Nothing had been quite right; this unit was designed to be a cash register proxy for Amazon–no, not for me.
It went back this morning, I was not happy about returning it, but, having slept on the decision, I knew it was the right one. There can be no question that an ebook reader is probably all of our futures; but I don’t think that mine will be Kindle or Nook. The reader is just a tool for what I want to read,and when, and where; not just my constant connection to Amazon. I guess that I have come to feel entitled, have everything ought to be Plug & Play. Much the same as the choice I made for a glucose meter.
Perhaps all this has to do with being in physical pain, and conscious of having to eat more morphine (although thankful to have the stuff). Maybe I was just in a bad mood, not receptive to anything that wasn’t perfect. But isn’t that the natural way of being? there are times when I am one way, times when another, get used to the idea of being grouchy and uncomfortable at times.
Having written this little piece about this little subject, I understand a little more. A sum of a line of littles.
