Internal cataloguing backlog

During my second run at grad school (the MA, not the unfinished - yes, I know. How many unfinished are the things? - PhD. Also, probably a good thing that ADHD/Austiam assement is coming up next week. The Venn diagrams of my mind are S P I N N I N G).   I began working at my local bookshop.  2 days a week, I was back in my element, shelf-reading, engaging with other readers, selling books like the necessities they shall always be. 

I thought hard for about 6 months about trying to buy the bookshop. I think I was panicking: I had capital and liquidity and those two words scared me in a way that I still cannot quite fathom.  And it wasn't just because my marriage was imploding. I mean, my co-parent is one of my favourite people, I just cannot even with him about finances. That life was too close to the bone in a way that is like an electric jolt to my system: back shuffle and hide the evidence, like it was a devoured cheesecake. The old 'rent or wide-legged red linen trousers' internal debate comes to mind. Even when It always works out, in the end, damn the limbic system overload to get there is not worth the colitis flare-up Yeah...so without, so within.  

But it wasn't quite right.  I love working in a bookshop, being a 2nd or 3rd in command, but I don't want the weight of it on my shoulders, or at least not then and not now.  One day, yes. And not just books. It was easy to exit stage left for the Summer of 2018, when I was actively considering returning to Ohio, in that raw 'go to ground' phase of D I V O R C E. 

Watching Red Lion Books flourish under the enthusiasm and impish grace of the managing bookseller, who continues to take the shop on to new horizons and you know the shop is right where it should be.  Just like, I am right where I should be, stretched out on my virginal bed, soaking up the morning sun like the lynx daddy used to say I was. Thinking about how I allow my self to chase after a ball of informational yarn, thinking of that time my mom was gifted a kitten that turned out to be a bobcat. 

Snowball (hush your mouth, now. I was 3, the cat was mostly white) was his own master and did not enjoy being put in doll dresses. Obviously, the pageant Queen in me found that very confusing. But in it was a good way to learn boundaries. And theb

'Rest assured, bobcats (rufus lynxus) do not attack people. In fact, bobcat attacks are virtually unknown; however, no one should ever attempt to touch or handle a wild bobcat or her kittens.'

Not untrue. Lynx, like cobra are very happy to stay in their lane, but you screw with 'em...well. 

In the mean time, it's Friday, I've finished a figure modeling auditon where I got to talk about how sexy I find elbows and knees. And I just tripped over laundry and realised I forgot to make my own lunch. Onward.