It was nice going to the library today – hell it was downright spiritual. I assume it was a similar feeling to what stepping into Wrigley or Fenway would evoke in a twelve-year-old who dreams of hitting home runs.
Poetic, corny, whatever – fuck you ego.
It was kind of sad to think how empty the library aisles were – excepting the intermittent solemn-faced Senior citizen seemingly searching for a piece of the past in silent contemplation. Socks with sandals.
And of course there is always an attractive mom-type or two to smile at because in a place as unsexy as the library you automatically apply a +2 or 3 handicap on the standard one to ten scale, but it’s also just possible, likely even, that books simply turn me on. Sapiosexuality.
But I was saddened to not bump into any awkward twelve year old boys looking for a copy of Lolita, as I would have once done – had I known it existed – of course at twelve the call of the sea had bitten me and I was searching out any and every sea story which could in hindsight fulfill my desire to run away. Treasure island was and perhaps will always be my favorite story.
Looking out through the library’s panoramic windows onto the grass and the January cool enshrouding the two Michigan-like trees I couldn’t help but think about all the days I have spent inside in an almost agoraphobic self-imposed exile from the world. All the days I could have been looking through the library windows onto the two Michigan-like trees atop the frigid, pale green grass.
I also realized in my manic excitement combing through the library’s fiction aisles that I hadn’t eaten all day, then immediately thought of how amazing it was that I had unfettered access to the worlds greatest books, and how awesome it was that I didn’t even give a fuck about the hunger, only minding the books. Just mind the books. You could spend two years here, I thought.
Reminded me of the time I sat on the sea wall with Shaggy talking about how our respective routines were based on the simple things that had “sustained the ancients for centuries” -as Shaggy had so fittingly said, given his grey beard and long matchy-match hair. Wise old man is wise.
I’m incredibly excited about the books I’ve picked up. It’s unbelievable simply witnessing my own writing mature and progress at a noticeable clip as a result of the writers I have been blessed to read lately.
I can only imagine after this next round of books that my pen game will be even sicker. Yes, I want to be a rockstar writer.
Author note: this is the first of my “journal” entries, which will be the now theme of 7Saturdays (think Carrie Bradshaw meets Ernest Hemingway) as I will be focusing on publishing my poems, essays, and stories in journals and magazines.
It was a bit tedious to publish this since I at first attempted to write this via screen, but quickly realized my writer’s facade was encroaching on my thoughts (I have always journaled into a paper notebook), that being said I had to transcribe this into WordPress, which I did verbatim – and I have a feeling my future Journal entries will require the same modicum of labor.