A new apartment. I had searched for almost two months to find my new home. After living with Alice for almost two years, it was time to be on my own. I signed the agreement and cut a check in the morning before I headed for work. I felt great in the first hours at my desk. I congratulated myself on reaching another tier of independence. I was twenty-five, living away from my parents for over three years now, and moving upward through three promotions at a company I had high hopes for. I didn’t have a boyfriend since my break with Greg at the beginning of summer, but I felt this move would motivate me to discover someone new and take a sabbatical from the many nights of small wine parties with my gal pals.
After work, I stood in an empty space. This weekend, I would move my belongings and begin to decorate. This would become my home, but it didn’t say anything about me at the moment, therefore it was not my home for the time being. It wasn’t a terribly large space. Up on the third floor of an old complex, a small entryway to the unit opened to a kitchen on the left and a den on the right. A short hallway beyond the den led to a full bathroom on the left and a large closet across from the bathroom. The one bedroom was in the back. The bedroom was actually larger than the den in the front, and offered lots of light with panoramic windows across the back wall. This bedroom had no closet, but it did provide a bonus room near the back. A small doorway without a door introduced a very narrow side room that matched the full length of the bedroom. When I was searching for rentals and I viewed this apartment unit with the property manager, he told me that the owner had installed the wall, and used the narrow space for guests and as a place to read. Apparently, my future landlord liked to read in the dark, as there was very little natural light in this room. A small area near the entry of the thin room offered a blot of sun rays from the bedroom windows, but the other end was dark with a whisper of ambient light.
In this slim, remote room, which might accommodate the smallest of beds or a big comfy chair at the far end, there was a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. A bookcase befitting of a large family room. This bookcase consumed over a third of the outside wall and touched the ceiling with a crown molding finish. The shelves were not too deep, and the part of the narrow room where the bookcase stood was even more cramped.
I had so many books from college, and in my first year on my own in a new city, I was consumed with reading novels and inspirational biographies. I had collected dozens of new books over the last three years, and mother had shipped all of my high school books in two large boxes. Living with a roommate and somewhat confined in my personal space, my old books had remained in boxes and my new books were stacked high next to my bed and dresser. There was no formal display of the topics that interested me, or the history of my knowledge consumption. Although my new bookcase was hidden away in the back of my new apartment, it would provide organization and care for the books that held special meaning, memories, and enlightenment for me over the years.
Between the packing, moving and unpacking, my weekend was dedicated to establishing myself comfortably in my new space. I wanted to wake up on the first Monday in my new home with everything in its proper place. I wanted a list of the things that I would eventually need in the kitchen, and a wish list of the new furnishings I’d like to have in the family room. I wanted this organization in place by Monday. Then, I could head off to work knowing that my apartment was as settled as it could possibly be with the few things I owned. I could have in mind what I was working towards in terms of filling out the rest.
The one area of my new home that did not have any voids, or a plan for future purchases, was the bookcase in my thin bonus room. There was more than enough material to fill this out and make it feel complete. I now called this lean bonus room, “The Bookcase Room.” I sometimes referred to the bookcase itself as, “Mr. Bookcase.” As I placed all my reading material on the shelves, and dressed-up spaces between the books with memorabilia from my childhood, I thought of myself as the mistress of Mr. Bookcase. Helping him realize his full potential as a bookcase.
I had set up the comfy chair, which previously occupied my old bedroom, in the back part of The Bookcase Room. In the move, Alice had relinquished a torchiere floor lamp we bought together, and this was placed near the comfy chair to offer light and a place to read. Now, Mr. Bookcase would have company when I was out running errands or at work.
Over the next few months, the empty apartment filled-out and filled-up, and it became my home. When I was at home, I spent a good portion of my time with Mr. Bookcase. I reorganized his shelves, arranging the books according to categories. Like a micro-library or the simple book section of a local pharmacy, I could look to different shelves, and different parts of individual shelves, to find specific categories of my historical reading. I could get excited with the idea that I would eventually add to some of the sections with new books, or collect new mementos to compliment a space between bookends.
Then, on a Saturday morning, I discovered a problem with Mr. Bookcase. The problem was with the visual presentation of Mr. Bookcase. Within each shelf, the tops of the books were not aligned in any way. Within a given category of books, the books themselves existed in a wide range of heights. They also existed in a variety of depths. Some books were deeper than the shelves, and this really bothered me. I considered giving away some oversized books, as they’d never offer the clean and tidy visual presentation that I was looking for. Mr. Bookcase looked disheveled and frumpy. If Mr. Bookcase asked me for a dance at the local night club or offered to buy me a drink from across the bar …based on first appearances, I’d have to kindly say, “you need a new look.”
By Saturday afternoon, I pulled everything off the shelves of Mr. Bookcase. I was orderly and methodical in my removal. I made many stacks of the many books that once filled out Mr. Bookcase’s frame, and carefully placed all of my personal trinkets and small picture frames on the comfy chair. He was now a tall shell of what he once was. I had to break him down in order to build him up to a better and more attractive look. When the last book was removed, I stood back to take-in the completely empty shelves of Mr. Bookcase. He was essentially naked. I couldn’t stand back too far, as the narrow width of the room only allowed for a five foot viewing distance. I stood there for a long time, taking in the visual of an empty and naked Mr. Bookcase. I contemplated and debated with myself. If I stepped away from the idea of categorizing the books, how would I find a book in the future without performing a visual scan of Mr. Bookcase from head to toe? On the other hand, it was so upsetting to enter The Bookcase Room, approach Mr. Bookcase, and see a randomized mess on each shelf. This was disturbing and always made me feel the need to clean, or become more organized. I rationalized to myself that I had read most of the books and order wasn’t so important. A number of books were put aside before completion and some were just given to me by friends — I had no interest in those particular books, but held onto them on the chance that someday I would develop a sincere interest. If I read most of the books and I would only return to the books as a matter of reference, why worry about categories, indexing, or alphabetizing?
It was all décor in the end. Beyond the keepsakes, trophies, and other items of remembrance …the books themselves served as ornaments alongside the items traditionally assigned to the rank of ornament in the service of ornamentation. This was the breakthrough I needed to activate, and I needed to work on this task at once with this in mind. Books became aligned by height. Sometimes rising from a small decorative bookend with small paperbacks alongside the bookend, to tall travel books residing inside the limits of the Mr. Bookshelf’s vertical walls. At the center of a middle shelf, I could create an island of books starting with medium height books on the outside and dipping low with smaller books in the middle of my book-island. The book-island could be supported by two heavy trophies with stone bases, which I received for high school spirit in my senior year — one on either side. Everything began to flow and find its proper place. It was beautiful and liberating at once. This project energized me with a desire to inspect other parts of my apartment for possible organizational improvements. Mr. Bookcase was making me a better person and helping me find a path to my higher hidden potential.
Books are meant to be read, not listened to.