TREASURE HUNT

My local library has a “free” section, fed by discarded library books and donations. Sometimes the books appear to come from the estates of learned people.  When I see a gem I grab it and someone I know gets a marvelous (tho used) Christmas present.  I recently came across two such volumes,  Animal Behavior, edited by Thomas Eisner and Edward O. Wilson, containing readings from Scientific America,  and–oh drat, I’ve already wrapped it for Christmas–a book of the complete campaigns of World War II, a reference book extraordinaire.

Then I realize that some of the best gems that stand out in my mind were those I ran into during graduate school, and I’ve never seen them surpassed. Why do we discount writings because of  an earlier copyright date?  I haven’t heard the insightful material discussed as well as in Your Perfect Right  by   Robert Alberti and Michael C. Emmons  c. 1970 and When Anger Hurts; Quieting the Storm Within by Matthew McKay.

In looking up the above sources I discovered that it’s more productive to Google by just the name of the book instead of Amazon. In my explorations I saw one used copy for $1 plus $5 shipping, and I was reminded to ponder over the practice of occasionally offering a $1 paperback for $101.37.  What shenanigans are folks up to?

[Sorry for the partial repeat of this–I earlier posted it halfway through, then forgot to save].

About Nan Mykel

I used to think I would be a child prodigy, but then I got old. Formerly I had fantasies of rubbing elbows with cultural and academic leaders but that did not come to pass because I did not become a cultural or academic leader or any other kind of leader, for that matter. I am not even an "Alpha Dog," a term learned from a friend who had to become "Alpha Dog" in order to influence her own pet. (When gazes lock, she never looks away.) For years I expected to become a published author, but in passing I could not avoid the fact that I had little to contribute to the world's bulging dumpsters. I'm embarrassed to report that I also considered my primary process artistic productions powerful, rather than mildly neurotic. Which is not to say that I disrespect myself, only that I am beginning to doubt my potential for making a mark on the world. If I focus on strict self discipline I may be able to keep my garbage removed on a weekly basis, to keep the kitty box changed, the clothes cleaned, the dog watered, fed and walked, but that just catches me up to the starting mark again. When writing I physically grapple with words, wrestling them from their indifference into attempted chunks of awareness. I sit heavily on my chair; I breathe in artificially cooled air; my ear drums note the tap tap of the keyboard and the steady uninterrupted sound of the air conditioner, What is that sound? The roar of the ocean from 30 yards away...Inside, my thoughts are are balls in an electronic game machine, bouncing hither and yon from lever to lever. I am a little grim and intent until I recall a dream related by a black man in the prison where I once worked. He said that when he was a small boy, back home, he dreamed he was standing on his front porch pissing, and that he suddenly found himself pissing stars...
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