I had a revelation the other day that whenever I am stressed about things – mainly financial things – I read books on how to save money and live simply by a bucket. I read old ones and seek out inexpensive or free new ones. I once found a blog and read it so much, the owner actually blocked me. I guess they thought my IP was a bot, because I kept opening post after post, reading them all.
The odd thing about this mechanism is that none of these books can teach me anything new. Sometimes I stumble upon a tip that I haven’t heard before. But it hasn’t happened in a while. I’m at a point where I’m considering writing a book like that of my own. Even though I still have debt, I still have bills that I’m behind on, and I don’t have full control over my own money – as in, literally, sometimes things are out of my control, and money is spent not by me, not on things I believe it should be spent on.
That doesn’t negate the fact that I know a lot about saving money and spending it wisely, though.
About a year ago I would have ruefully accepted the label ‘spendthrift’, but recently I had another realisation – I am not it. I am not one. I am not a spendthrift. I know that no one in my life would agree with that, but then again no one is living my life but me. I have made irresponsible financial decisions, but that was hypomania. “Core” me, stable me is different. Entirely. She cuts off every bill and considers every expense. Sometimes to the point of exhaustion, I might add. She’d fixate on things so much, she’d just buy nothing in the end. But I always have to fight and contest the term “spender”. It is such an easy – and infinite – way to minimise my financial turmoil and invalidate my knowledge. If I mention a loan payment, I would immediately get a reply that I’m thoughtless with money.
Bitch, I am literally insane.
But loan payments don’t grind my gears as much as, say, an electricity bill commentary does. Because one can’t fault me for irresponsible electricity usage. I turn off the lights, I unplug the pluggable, I use as little artificial light as possible to the point of moving around in the darkness. I’m sensitive to light, so it’s fine. I always play with fridge temps (within safety levels of course), and I am not averse to washing my laundry on cold. I even turn off the second monitor periodically and only use one. I guess the only “luxury” I allow myself is the AC, but when the temps outside are 40C, one could argue that it’s a necessity.
Anyway, so maybe I will write that book. For now, though, I have this blog, and a renewed, though shy, desire to upkeep it and share what I write.
I like to think of myself as the perfume girlie. Even though scents and I have a very complicated relationship.
There was a time in my life where I went completely perfume-less for a really long time. There were two scents that I enjoyed, but unfortunately both got ‘stolen’ from me, so I stopped wearing them. It’s a story for another day. Everything else was abhorrent, because it would immediately trigger a migraine. My migraines have thankfully somewhat mellowed out with age — as in, not every single thing on my trigger list affects me daily as it used to — so in recent years I began collecting fragrance again.
But collector is a loaded word. I would blind buy a lot of things, and mostly inexpensive things, because these would be the only fragrances I could afford. I’m a maximalist, and I like VARIETY in most things, so having a small curated collection is definitely not about me. Which means that instead of having one niche perfume, I have fifteen inexpensive ones.
And the bottles! Oh, I love the pretty bottles. I keep all my empty perfume bottles in the same cupboard that houses my grandmother’s Bohemia crystal and bone china. But as any perfume aficionada will tell you, a pretty bottle does not a good fragrance make.
It also took me a while to figure out how the entire base/mid/top note thing works. I would often get enamoured with a top note — and a top note is fleeting — only to discover when I come home that I absolutely hate the base. And ‘hate’ is half the problem. At the worst I would use it to spray right outside my front door, to dissuade my neighbour from the idea that my cats smell. (They don’t. I’ve asked. My neighbour either has hyperosmia, or a grudge against me.) Some of the bases would be a migraine trigger.
And then there’s some things that I like in theory. Like, I love the idea of vanilla or almond. But I think I’ve only found one execution of either that I find comforting and pleasant. Everything else immediately goes into ‘headache’ territory.
Coffee is another thing like that. Who doesn’t like the scent of coffee filling a quiet kitchen on a Saturday morning? But I have yet to find a perfume that would imitate that idea for me.
And, of course, there’s the body chemistry. I recently got a small sample vial of Lacoste’s Pour Femme. I was scenting it day in and day out, not putting it on myself, because I didn’t want to waste it, nor spend any money, and I was absolutely sure that I would rush out to buy the biggest bottle the moment this concoction touched my skin. The notes read well, too. There isn’t a single note in theory that I dislike in there.
And then I sprayed it on myself finally.
And thanked the Lord that I didn’t rush out to buy an entire bottle of this, because on me, to me, it was fucking vile. I’m sure I will encounter it on other women and lose my head for it, but on me, to me, it’s disgusting.
I’m not really sure where this is heading. Well, all of these posts lead to the same conclusion — that of me having enough of pretty much everything. I have a decent amount of perfume these days, and although there are some bottles that have been on my mind for a really long time, I’m okay without them.
Even though my instagram has nothing to show for it, I’ve been taking pictures of books for a long, long, looong time. And, of course, I would inevitably be taking photos of book hauls and TBRs.
Spoiler alert: Most of them are still that. TBRs, I mean.
Over the years I’ve come to realise that I’m not so much a slow reader, as I am just a distracted one. Depending on the subject and the language, I read anywhere between 40 and 70 pages per hour, which is not goddamn fast, but it’s not slow either. It’s just that apart from books, which I usually read several of, I also read magazines, newspapers, fanfiction (there, I said it), online newsletters, blogs, telegram channels, comics, etc., etc., etc. If we were to bind everything I read throughout the year in actual books, I would be somewhere around 200 probably, if not 300.
200 finished, and 100 unfinished.
Because as I mentioned, I read many books at the same time. I have the proud attention span of a fruit fly on psychedelics. Deal with it.
I’m still learning to.
Anyway.
While the list of books I am ‘currently reading’ we have dealt with elsewhere, behold The Bookstack Roast.
At one point in time I stacked books, and I took a picture of them.
And now I roast the stack, and me in tandem. Because most of these stacks are still unread, or at least unfinished.
Let’s start with a random one from September, the year that shall not be named, but I’ll name it anyway. 2020, the first year of the pandemic.
In September I recently returned home from Egypt, where I was stuck for half a year on a two week work trip gone awry. Planes did not fly, borders were closed, so I was stuck where I was, doing what I had to do. I also bought a car recently, and a day later found out that my salary was cut in two. Yes, in two, I’m not exaggerating. It was just another brush stroke to the wholesome portrait of my flourishing radicalisation.
I left that job years ago, and I’m still angry.
But back to the books. Let’s go from the top.
don’t judge the photo; i was probably only planning on sending it to a friend
Out of the tree on the top, all written by Louise Penny, I’ve read the one on the bottom of the three. Still Life, the first in her series of mysteries about Gamache. At that time I thought I wouldn’t continue the series, at least not beyond the three books that I had bought, but I have since then reconsidered and added the books to my ‘series i’m more or less reading’ list. I like my mystery fiction a little bit… I was going to say punchier, but that’s not it. Anyway, Penny’s work is not fully to my taste, but I’ll continue the Gamache series. As of now I still have the two books that I bought five fucking years ago proudly unread.
Next in the pile is Du Maurier’s The House on the Strand, criminally still unread. It is followed by Updike’s Rabbit, Run, also unread, also criminally so.
I can explain.
I have this thing where I desire to read books in their original untranslated selves if I have the privilege of speaking the language. I read Russians in Russian, Moldavians and Romanians in Moldavian and Romanian. I attempt to read Spaniards and Spanish Latin Americans in Spanish, and I strive to read writers who write in English in, well, English.
However.
The library I own predates my existence. It’s been composed by my parents, and their parents, and the parents of their parents before I was ever ideated in any form. And as much as I would like, say, to read Steinbeck or London in English, I already have their works in Russian, translated, published, procured, and shelved way before my day.
That’s the first reason.
The second reason is that I prefer paper books, and I am not made of money. We do have English shelves of questionable substance and quality in local book shops, but they don’t always have what I want, and when they do, it’s usually twice the price I’d pay online, even with shipping.
So I guess I should nip my inclinations in the bud, and read books in any language that’s available to me — I tell myself over and over again, but it just doesn’t work.
Recently I decided on a middle ground, which I have already breached a couple times, and which my briefly mentioned radical self calls a cop-out instead – but yeah, I told myself that I would read the books that I already own in a language that I already have them in, but if I do feel that the translation sucks balls, I will buy the book in English, and it won’t even count against my low-buy.
I think a lot about everything book related in my day to day, maybe even about as much as I actually spend reading.
Du Maurier I am not really worried about, as I read Rebecca in Russian, and it was fine. I think I only had one or two dissonances when reading. So if The House on the Strand was done by the same translator, I’ll be fine. Updike, however, I am not so sure.
I guess I just have to start reading and see.
Next in the stack lies Kazuo Ishiguro’s When We Were Orphans, and I worry about this one too, due to reasons outlined above. I notice that the classics are usually fine, and commercial trope fiction is usually shit (like, double shit), and litfic one never knows. It could fall into the hands of a good translator and shine, or it could fall into the hands of a good translator who doesn’t really understand the work and stink.
One would think that I consider myself a good translator – no. I’m bilingual, but I suck ass at translating. I even stopped doing it for money, even the bureaucratic stuff that brings in the most money anyway, because I just couldn’t stand it.
I apologise, by the way. You came for a book stack roast, and you’re getting half my biography and a bit of my family history as well.
As I said, I worry about Ishiguro, but other than that, I have no excuse for leaving this book unread for four and a half years.
Next in the stack are two books by Nesbo, both from Harry Holle series. We’ve got The Bat, and Cockroaches. I think they’re the first and the second in the series, but please double check elsewhere. The reason I haven’t read these two yet doesn’t particulary exist – I guess I was just distracted. I can’t decide if I enjoy Nesbo’s works or not. They’re okay, don’t get me wrong, some of them I might even rate higher than three – not that it should mean anything to you, but a three in my world is a good mark for a book. But still something is amiss. Anyway I bought them, so I might as well read them. I guess next time I’ll be needing a gorier thriller, I’ll pick up The Bat.
Finally we’ve reached another book in this stack that I have read. Remember this moment, kids, because next time we night not be this lucky.
Educated by Tara Westover is abook that I picked up at an almost random in Istambul airport. It was on my radar, but it wasn’t madly pinging. I picked it up, because it was one of the only books that sparked recognition, and I also really liked how it felt in my hands. I guess it just goes to show that it was meant to be, because it ended up being one of my favourite books of all time. I don’t reread books (thank my grandmother on father’s side for that), but I would break this rule for this book. The really aren’t many on the list, so I cherish this thought. I hope Westover has another book in her.
And finally, we have Atwood’s The Testaments, which is still unread, but will be soon. Back when I bought it, I was yet to finish The Handmaid’s Tale, and before I get to The Testaments, I want to read some of her earlier work.
Which we will get to in time – especially since some of it is also in the book stack pictures.
