The weather’s changed, gone cooler and so very dark early in the evening. Sometimes on Sunday mornings, I crawl out of bed, pull on thick socks and pajama pants, and wander out to my couch with my book. It’s a futon, more a second bed than a couch really, and after wrapping up in a thick blanket, it is the world’s best reading and napping spot. If the book is good I’ll read through the screaming of my tea kettle. I’ll read until the tea I make is cold in the cup and the sun stops fighting to get through my windows. I’ll read until there really is no point in putting on street clothes after I turn that last page—Nope, I should just crawl back into bed.
And if the book is bad? Oh well, the futon really is the best napping place in the world. Rearrange a few pillows, curl down against the side, and perfection. Nap away until the church bells chime that it is time to find some breakfast.
If what I’m reading requires me to sit up and take notice, to closely examine the text or the page for clues to the author’s meaning or the character’s motivations then I sit in the big, green chair. Best garage sale find ever, that chair is; plush and so large it tries to swallow me whole. Wide enough to let me sit cross legged or sideways with my legs draped over the arm. I’ve highlighted many a text in that chair, tried to memorize facts and figures or just understand the classics. Never with the correct posture, of course, but I think that is more my fault than the chair’s.
And if I should need a break from my facts, figures, or classical texts? The bookshelf behind my chair is filled: knitting supplies to Christopher Moore to Elizabeth George to the Outlaw Bible of American Poetry. I just have to reach back and some book will take me away.
I’ve been known to read in the car—passenger or back seat, obviously—but the motion of the vehicle always makes me sleepy. I’m much too likely to nod off in the middle of a paragraph and awaken to find that I don’t remember what I’d last read.
I do read on the train, in the mornings, but the commute (if you can even call it that) is short and people watching can be fun. Any reading seems to occur in snippets and paragraphs, interspersed with me covertly trying to find out what everyone else is reading (and whether or not I’ve sold it to them), listening to the odd bits of conversation from those around me, and looking for the man who always rides with his cat perched upon his shoulder. I never get lost in a book on the train, but then again, I never have time, but maybe that’s the point. If the book is good enough those snippets will stick with me until I make my way back to my apartment to fall onto the couch or drape across the chair. It will keep me from detouring to a local pub for a snack and a beer or calling a friend.
If the book is good enough I’ll want to find a nice, soft place to return to its world as quickly as possible.
How about you? Where do you read?