No Smoking Joint

Smog-Free. Shiny-White. Clean Lungs.

the dreaded place for a book to be.

it is simply meant an exile. the st. helena or the honolulu for a deposed emperor or a dictator. the Goodwill or the Salvation Army for a thing that has no significant use (or was used before, but was rapidly replaced by something more appealing or advanced or brand-spanking-new). like a vacant space for anything that is junk. 

once a book relegated to that cramped cubicle of solitude, it degrades the value. a bathroom read is the "meantime guy/gal" in the perspective of tight-end spines and crease-free pages. its importance is visually secondary; its relevance, obviously shoddy. from that point, is a communal thing for a literature to commit a conspired redemption---not from throwing itself into the murky depths of the ceramic abyss--but from an eventual liberation on the hands of another.

however, becoming a backlog is a salvation of some sort. like an ex- bound for a reconciliation. a hope that will most likely springs eternal. but for the eyes to feast on, is dependent on its ability to goad. or in most cases, of an empty billfold.

admittedly, i have a few of my own. books that found themselves stacked up with magazines of eons ago, carefully balanced on that lid of burnished white ceramic; and even a small tap would send the entire lot on a tumble to litterbox. they have a purpose, i reckon. maybe why i let them cling to that fate.

as far as bathroom reads are concerned, i am a believer. if not, an advocate. concentration belies the demand for sustenance. a current flow of ideas to counter a physical loss. the rationality had perhaps been proven since man discovered the need. a kind of leisure, so to speak. for that particular interval in time. for whatever reason, it endows a sense of entitlement---a nugget of knowledge in that specific moment. 

never a day that my incursions to the john are marred with lack of reading material. they complete the spectrum of it---like biscotti with a cup of coffee. a filler to that minute box of personal space. whether literature complements, or not, still it is always a must.

the queue:

Gallipoli - Alan Moorehead

The Americans at Normandy - John McManus

Film Noir - Alain Silver (a reread)

The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks (another reread)