Books In Waiting

It used to be alphabetical, and symetrical and aesthetcially beautiful. The books all flush, pulled towards the outer edge of the shelve and categorized by own volition, my own agenda, my own perogative. Now I have this overflowing mess, piles on top of piles, jammed in every which way and to be honest, I don't think it looks all that bad. It's not as functional but maybe its' the only way a pedants bookshelf should look. Anyway, here is a list of the books that are waiting, wide-eyed with expectation, putting on their best smile and tightening their tie (in the case of Cortazar's 62: A Model Kit) or wiping away the mud from their boots (in the case of Asturias' Men of Maize) to be picked in due time, parented, to be a part of the family.

Next in Line after Dreamland by Kevin Baker
I The Supreme by Augusto Rao Bastos
The rest are in no particular order
A Brecht Play probably Three Penny Opera
Living To Tell The Tale by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Men of Maize by Miguel Angel Asturias
Son's and Lovers by D.H. Lawrence
Century of The Wind by Eduardo Galeano the last of the Trilogy, Memory of Fire
Memiors, Pablo Neruda
Writing the Disaster, Maurice Blanchot, (it's in route from an inter-library loan)

I Did It Your Way

For anyone with inclinations to Frank Sinatra, stop. Hold it right there. Do not, I repeat do not use the phrase, "I Did it My Way," in reference to any success you may have had in the past. When people told you it was impossible and some how you still made it happen, it wasn't because you did it your way. It's probably because someone else did it their way and because they screwed up doing it their way, your way accidentally worked. "I Did it My Way" is completely played out. No one is proud of you for doing it your way. It's not novel. You are not brave.

How ever, if you completely blow it, and you're looking to blame it on something, you may, at this point sing your heart out. This is an appropriate time to sing "I Did It My Way." Let everyone know that you messed up because you did it your way. Van Gogh did it his way. No one bought his paintings and he ended up going insane and shooting himself. HE is allowed to sing Frank.