I haven’t accomplished much today, but I have that very satisfying, full-up feeling that seems to wrap itself around my spine whenever I have enjoyed a book, and I have definitely been enjoying a book. I obviously need to extend my circles, for I had not heard of Georgette Heyer until a week ago, even though anyone who knows me must realize that anything taking place in the Regency period is sure to elicit, if not absolute delight, at least a little polite amusement. Even in the realm of science fiction, some of my favorite works have been described as “space regency.” Oh, just the idea of dinners, and etiquette, and giving someone the cut all while piloting spaceships and discovering plots of intergalactic espionage . . . well, whose heart wouldn’t give a little leap?
Just because I haven’t been productive today (or the day before that) doesn’t mean I never get anything done, and it is to prove this that I present to you The Kindle Case:
Execution: my own.
Awesomeness: the fault of the orange and blue, plastic coated fabric which takes the place of honor on the outside of the case.
Inside is providence, in the form of some blue fabric scavaged from wht I’m am informed was once a curtain, though surely I can’t remember my family ever having curtains of either this style or shade. I still need to affix the closure, in the form of a hook and eye, to the tab and front flap. Also, having used it to read Cotillion this morning, I find that it might be sensible to add a small strap for my glasses to hang off of, and perhaps a small pocket for that most necessary of companions, the tissue. I can’t seem to go anywhere without wanting one eventually, and as of yet, my wardrobe is singularly lacking in pockets. Yes, I often feel like Corduroy.
I’m loving my kindle, despite my passion for the feel and smell of it’s ink and paper counter parts. I love that when it turns off it shows me pictures of Agatha Christie, Jane Austin, or Charlotte Bronte, as if it knows that these ladies are particular favorites of mine. The knowledge that I can lay it aside to transfer a load of laundry, or nuke a plate of pancakes, without having to worry about finding my place is quite comforting. I slide the switch to the right and the green light flickers on as the screen hesitates. I catch my breath, will my page be lost? I know that if my kindle’s recall fails the chances of me finding my page will be wholly dependent on my patchy memory and dexterity in querying. I can only feel apprehension as the page loads. Slowly the ink dissolves away and then reforms itself. Letters, words, in truth the exact page I was perusing not a moment before, restores itself to my sight. It makes the necessity of bookmarks quite unnecessary, which is good. I am out of the habit of using them, even for really long, ink and paper books, and it has been many years indeed since I dared crease a corner for the purpose. I might stow a tissue in between the pages when interrupted suddenly from time to time, but I can usually navigate the pages of a book without any such aid.
In fact, the only bookmarks I use with any kind of regularity are those found on the internet. These I find quite useful, and employ them to the point where they are almost a collection. I have some that are older than my current computer, and some that were added just yesterday, and the task of keeping them properly organized is my constant delight. Some of them deserve more than to be stored in my dusty files (though, I suppose there is no dust in an electric folder). With this in mind, I propose to introduce them to you in hopes that, even if they don’t end up on your own list of bookmarks, they will at least be a little aired out.
(Emily Dickinson, another favorite, as I too have “never seen a moor.”)