The Urge To Order
I have little doubt that were I ever to subject myself to dissection by one of the many mental health professionals that abound in this world, I would be informed that I am, ahem, slightly obsessive compulsive. Nor is there any doubt as to where I acquired this tendency. As a young sprout I often witnessed my father's unvarying pre-departure ritual, which consisted of a) piling my sister and I into the car and then b) dashing back into the house to 'check on the [wood-burning] stove' -this despite the fact the he always checked the stove before walking out the front door.
Well, the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree as they say. I don't have a wood-burning stove but more than once when leaving my apartment shortly after cooking I have felt an inexplicable urge to go back and check the stove. (I've also noticed that using the ironing board shortly prior to departure has the same effect). To date I've successfully resisted these compulsions but I honestly believe that overall it's a losing battle, as my obsessive tendencies simply manifest themselves in other directions.
Naturally I'm talking about my habit of making lists. Lists of all types, lists in my day book, lists in my nifty little moleskin notebook. I could dissemble, and claim that this habit of list making is merely my way of imposing order on an inherently chaotic world, or that it's a handy of keeping track of a large variety of interests and tasks.
But no. What it really means is that I'm a fucking weirdo, or, if you're feeling kindly disposed towards me, that I'm eccentric. Yes, eccentric will do nicely.
The latest outburst occurred the other night, when I was re-ordering my bookshelves. I should add at this point that re-ordering my bookshelves is another one of my obsessive pleasures. My books are shelved and aligned according to a vaguely discernible but ultimately indecipherable system, known only to me. A rogue volume not placed according to the system is as unsightly as a missing front tooth in Ms. America's smile; new books must be properly placed, and since my bookcases are full, fitting a recent addition into the collection often involves shifting older volumes about, all the while making sure all is in order. The whole process can be said to resemble a mad librarian's version of musical chairs.
Anyhoo - as I was going about this chore the other night, I started to take a note of the books that I hadn't yet gotten around to reading. Soon I enough I became curious as to exactly how many unread books I owned... and a list was born. So far the list contains 45 entries - and I haven't even touched on the bookcase in the bedroom or the nightstand (which serves as an auxiliary bookcase). That's about six months worth of reading material, more when I consider that six of the offenders are Winston Churchill's massive tomes on the Second World War.
I should just stop acquiring new books. But that's another compulsion altogether.
Well, the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree as they say. I don't have a wood-burning stove but more than once when leaving my apartment shortly after cooking I have felt an inexplicable urge to go back and check the stove. (I've also noticed that using the ironing board shortly prior to departure has the same effect). To date I've successfully resisted these compulsions but I honestly believe that overall it's a losing battle, as my obsessive tendencies simply manifest themselves in other directions.
Naturally I'm talking about my habit of making lists. Lists of all types, lists in my day book, lists in my nifty little moleskin notebook. I could dissemble, and claim that this habit of list making is merely my way of imposing order on an inherently chaotic world, or that it's a handy of keeping track of a large variety of interests and tasks.
But no. What it really means is that I'm a fucking weirdo, or, if you're feeling kindly disposed towards me, that I'm eccentric. Yes, eccentric will do nicely.
The latest outburst occurred the other night, when I was re-ordering my bookshelves. I should add at this point that re-ordering my bookshelves is another one of my obsessive pleasures. My books are shelved and aligned according to a vaguely discernible but ultimately indecipherable system, known only to me. A rogue volume not placed according to the system is as unsightly as a missing front tooth in Ms. America's smile; new books must be properly placed, and since my bookcases are full, fitting a recent addition into the collection often involves shifting older volumes about, all the while making sure all is in order. The whole process can be said to resemble a mad librarian's version of musical chairs.
Anyhoo - as I was going about this chore the other night, I started to take a note of the books that I hadn't yet gotten around to reading. Soon I enough I became curious as to exactly how many unread books I owned... and a list was born. So far the list contains 45 entries - and I haven't even touched on the bookcase in the bedroom or the nightstand (which serves as an auxiliary bookcase). That's about six months worth of reading material, more when I consider that six of the offenders are Winston Churchill's massive tomes on the Second World War.
I should just stop acquiring new books. But that's another compulsion altogether.
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