the books picked me

It’s 8:26 in the a.m. and already face-up on my bed are three books I hope to read some of today, including a (just grabbed from the little library at Granada and Cedar) beat-up, likely thoroughly loved copy of Walter Moseley’s “Devil in a Blue Dress”, which the fact is I’ve read maybe 23 times already, never mind digging the Denzel movie. But Walter is one of my real long-time favorite authors, I sort of lust after his way with words, and this particular copy had just enough bends and creases and rubbed-off cover to wave its hands at me – “Pick me. Pick me.” Which I did.

On a day like this warming Wednesday, it’d be kind of silly not to.

(Oh – any enquiring minds which want to know: the other two books, already there and waiting when I left for my walk, are Natalie Goldberg’s “The True Secret of Writing”, and John Tarrant’s “bring me the rhinoceros, and other zen koans that will save your life.” All small letters.