look at all the pictures in the ceiling

I walked home from the library with only four books--three hardcover and one lovely paperback. only four books, but rather large ones. except for the paperback, which I held open in first one hand, then the other, shifting the three hardcovers from arm to arm as I ignored the busy street on my right and the shadowy greenery of other people's front yards on my left.

it's Lewis Buzbee's The Yellow Lighted Bookshop.

the others: a book about color, a book about writing, and a book about a teenage wizard with a scar on his forehead.

what are these books going to do for me?

they shall send me into various different universes, filling my brain with new knowledge of history, culture, technique, processes, imagery, words, pictures, and more. And I will file all this new information away, and someday when it surfaces again in my memory, I will tie it up in new ribbons, new boxes, new patterns, new media. all this stuff gets recycled, eventually.

I've been seeking a lot of advice lately. collecting ideas for my life's plan. I file it all away in a similar manner, waiting for new patterns to surface and solidify... waiting for a plot to catch hold of.
there's something for me in all this blank open possibility. but what is it?