Adventures in the Book-Trade, Part I

I. A man, smelling as though he’d spent the past several days in the cargo hold of a Dutch East India Company trade ship inquires as to a book on “immediate response psychiatry.” I tell him the publication date of the book he wants is the tenth of February, as the computer screen indicates, and should you want to reserve a copy now we will hold it for you on the day it comes out. He doesn’t see why if he reserves it now, he doesn’t get it earlier than that—than the date it is released on the market PERIOD. As though the screen were some kind of Free Mason’s riddle, he leans in to have a better look. Really close. The pungent smell of nutmeg and curry…

II. A man and a woman, late thirties, early forties perhaps, literally prance into the children’s section dressed faintly like members of some kind of trendy, traveling bard-cabaret. Brother and sister I guess, though difficult to distinguish at times. Brother has on tight black jeans, woolly boots and a violet skull-cap and reminds me of an effeminate Cat-in-the-Hat. They are looking for a series of kids’ books called the Traveling Benedicts something-or other and as if on cue have a smug comment for everything co-worker Liz and I tell them. She wonders out loud to me if we are part of some candid camera experiment going on. They are entirely too giddy, and any form of happiness typically only stirs up resentment and paranoia in us book folk at that time of night. Sister reminds me of a witch. Not a bad one, necessarily, but not Glenda-like either; more like the flighty, bleach-blond, boozy pill-popper witch of the south (who wears too much make-up). It occurs to me that Dorothy in fact becomes the Witch of the South in Frank Baum’s world, and would pass the mantle to her daughter, and so on. Considering the lineage it all starts to make perfect sense…

III. A group of choral geriatrics decides to grace the bookstore with their broken renditions of a very, VERY Berle Ives Christmas, with an assortment of show tunes mixed in. My co-worker Sean and I have to set up the chairs at the forefront of the store’s upper level. Despite our insistence that we will take care of it, the “maestro”, an outspoken woman in her seventies or worse shows us how to set them up properly, dragging two interlocked chairs behind her, knocking over an additional two. The set has the feel and sound of a difficult childbirth, persisting for well over an hour. Customers in the store leave, while those at the door refuse to commit and turn around. Maestro is very lively and animated, dancing around and swinging her little composer’s wand, which I suspect she lifted from a Harry Potter activity book. Resentment overtakes me each time I see her head pop up over the shelves I’m stacking, not because of her ridiculous movements, but more for her ill prepared chorus of singers, a clear sign of her poor leadership, (or perhaps the huge collective lie she is responsible for concerning the old farts’ ability to sing. One of those.)

IV. A woman, incensed that, NO we do not offer gift wrapping services informs me that our other locations, as well as our competitors do at little table stations and would it really be going out of YOUR way to do the same? I tell her I can quadruple bag her purchase, spinning it in a special labyrinth of recycled holiday plastic if she is so inclined. She is not.

V. An older man asks me what I know about the NOOK, our new e-book reader. “Why it’s one of the two most vital components of a Thomas’s English Muffin, of course,” I tell him. His stare is like that of a shop front mannequin—artificially inviting, though mostly neutral and aloof. He goes on to speculate for a while about how the manufacturers will work out what he thinks are the glitches for a proposed NOOK-2 model. “Perhaps they will call that one the CRANNY,” I enthusiastically say.

VI. A couple inquire as to a book for their grandson; five years old and of course very “smart”. I point wife to Shell Silverstein’s classic “The Giving Tree”, metaphorically rich, touching, and simple from which there is a clear message. The memory of it warms her. Husband is not impressed and ignoring me tries to sell her on a book about a talking tractor and his friendship with a young deer. Rather than a children’s literary classic from a master he suggests a story about anthropomorphic FARM EQUIPMENT. “He’s a BOY-boy,” he tells me, “and into ‘BOY things’.” Don’t be disappointed sir, I quell the urge to tell him, but the deer, or half of him at least probably doesn’t end up over a fireplace at story’s end.

VII. A kid, about eleven or so excitedly enters the children’s section. His parents are very eager to leave, but he insists: “I know exactly what I want now, can’t I just run and go get it?” He walks through the archway entrance slowly and in awe as though it were the Stargate, points to book one of The Last Olympians on display, and asks me where the rest of Rick Riordan may be. I scan through TEEN, and then JUVENILE FICTION. No dice. “If your parents get on ya about taking too long, just blame it on me ok?” He nods. More rummaging. He points to Eoin Colfer’s extensive Artemis Fowl series: “Those were good too. I’ve read all of those.” He then spots what we are looking for overhead in JUVENILE FICTION SERIES (I mean, what the hell was I thinking?) Parents arrive. He pleads with his father for a set of all three sequels. “Remember how fast I read the first one?” What a surprise, the wishes of a child at Christmas time win out again. They leave.

A kid defies his parents’ demands that he hurry up. NOT in a Toys R Us. NOT in a Gamestop, or a Best Buy, but a bookstore. Through his best efforts he coaxes them into buying not a video game, remote control whatever, or DVD, but another book, the author of which he knows by both name and reputation. The smile lasts through the remainder of my shift.

Productive

In a conversation recently about what was most important to us and how we want our lives to play out, a friend mentioned how eventually she wanted to live someplace outside the country. This was nothing new for me to hear; we had both studied abroad in the same Irish city and not surprisingly we both wished we’d never left. So we’d discussed decisions like this before and what led us to them, but it was how she said it this time that got the gears moving:

"I would rather live in a foreign country. Where everything isn’t about money and productivity, but about living, and beautiful things...."

I equate productivity, being productive, with things like self growth, doing what things you have to do, following up on all the things you wanted to.

Waking up reasonably early. Cleaning up, maybe tending to the yard. Some exercise, probably. Maybe further a relationship you may have only just kindled with someone, or spark an entirely new one. Make a call to a family member or friend you haven’t talked to in months, maybe even over a year. Finish a book, or start one, the one you’ve been meaning to read. Gain some ground on a personal/professional endeavor; a sketch of a building if you’re an architect, a series of snap-shots if you’re a photographer. If you’re an aspiring writer like me, maybe peck away at a short story, poem, or the "manuscript."

(That’s an intimidating word, manuscript...)

Give something away you don’t need. Hack away the things that no longer serve you in any way, and continuously add something that does. Leave a footprint in the sand, a positive impression on the world, or in someone’s life. (Earning a living probably fits into this model somewhere.)

The brand of productivity my friend seeks, as many of us do, to liberate herself from is of the "assembly line" variety, concerned with figures, statistics, money and status.

Lately a lot of us have been in survival mode just trying to keep our heads above the water, seeking independence without drowning in debt and the cost of living.

In this country, you are what you own. For many, self-worth is Codependent on net-worth.

*Sigh* If you’re gonna be broke, ya better be cute… (I look at my receding hairline and shudder lately...)

...

I think what it comes down to is filling the hours and minutes with as much learning, growing, and of course, sharing as possible.

Time is NOT money. I want to personally desecrate the grave-site of whoever coined that insipid phrase, because those who truly subscribe to that ethos do NOT actually utilize their own time—they monopolize the time of others.

I began working in a Barnes & Noble recently, and sadly my time, like the time of my coworkers, supervisors and managers is just a currency generating tool for a bunch of corporate fat-cats who sit in a board room somewhere in New York City and who definitely don’t give a shit about literature or spreading the "word" around.

It’s not just us either, but every consumer who walks through the big glass doors and consigns the minutes or hours of their day to that store. The customers always suspect they are being screwed somehow (though it doesn’t actually stop them from pissing their money away.) They are probably right, but they should channel their angsty frustration and collectively broadcast it to that Manhattan office building instead of slinging individual dirty looks, snide comments and other venom-tipped arrows in our general direction.

...

I’m not suggesting we boycott bookstores or anything in general. I in fact...love bookstores. If Glade made a "new book," or "wafting café aroma" scented plug-in, I’d have one in every outlet of my house.

Consider the suit-clad people in that conference room: even if their suede pockets are lined deeper than ours, in the end, their time isn’t theirs, and all time on this earth is small time isn’t it? With so much energy focused on financial and material gain, holes start to form.

Creative; spiritual; interpersonal; romantic.

Throwing money at a gaping void in life never was the best way to fill it. Besides, it runs out. Well, for most of us, anyway. Still there are a lucky few with inexhaustible trust funds, bankers whose alternate clientele include exiled royalty and arms dealers, and credit cards with platinum status that put Michael Jackson’s Thriller to shame.

Before you get envious, remember that they will continue to shovel that money through that black hole of little to no return like coal into an insatiable fire.

No, time is not money. What is done with it in the end, frugal or frivolous is inconsequential. Time is LIFE. How do you SPEND yours?

She is Love, (More Musings on Love, Part Two)

...and I do believe her when she speaks..

What is a soul mate? It’s a term that gets tossed around a lot, relegated now mostly to Nicholas Sparks novels and their subsequent film adaptations.

However, its origins aren’t found in some lake house in North Carolina, but somewhere near HERE:

Everyone possesses a soul. Our souls are like pieces to something greater: an origin point. Across time and history, when we die, our souls divide. Each half, or shard, or whatever you choose to call it enters into a new human vessel for rebirth. The process repeats. So, one then becomes two, which later on becomes four and in turn eight and so on. It’s easy to imagine this in terms of cell division, the blueprint by which the universe expands and grows.

It accounts for why the world’s population was by leaps and bounds smaller a hundred, five hundred, a thousand years ago.

Anyhow, moving forward: There are others, separated from us sometimes by oceans and time zones that carry in them a corresponding piece. There is a part of them inside which was once a part of us, a long, long time ago. We begin our search for this person from the very moment we are born.

"You complete me." That term never gets old. That’s because it’s as timeless as this migration of souls, this process of reincarnation.

That’s the story, take it or leave it. But whether conscious of it or not, we are always looking for something, for someone. It is a mechanism, awareness from deep inside that I believe is separate from, and supersedes conscious judgment and thought. It is that unexplained apprehension we feel; a void or emptiness we can’t fill; a primal call on some strange frequency beckoning us to migrate, like something out of a Jack London story. It is what responds to that special light behind the eyes of another.

These beliefs precede many of the world’s existing religions, and are prevalent metaphors in several of them. (Think Adam’s rib, and that certain lady whom possesses it after it’s removed from him...That corresponding part both he and Eve share that was a piece of the original human design.)

"True love" is just that: our soul’s recognition of it’s counterpart inside of another. It is also the energy, the beacon, the waves we send out and the means by which we locate it.

For many, or honestly, for most, it never happens. Some dilute the importance of such a thing; a mere selling point for greeting card companies and romantic comedies. They con themselves into thinking it doesn’t exist, or they don’t need it. Still many others hold fast to this utilitarian viewpoint for all things. They weigh the value of their relationships with one another as though they were commodities, a process akin to buying a car:

"Well, we’ve been together this long, and we already live together; Well, she’s hot—I mean, she’s pretty hot, don’t you think?; Well, he can put up with me; She lets me do whatever I want; He has a great job and takes care of me; Well, at this point in my life...I probably can’t do any better...I’m almost 30, for heaven sakes! It makes sense, doesn’t it?"

NO. No it does NOT make sense.

"I just need a companion; a presence that fills the room..."— Then get a DOG, for Christ sakes. Or a parrot—those possess (albeit in a limited capacity) the power of speech.

Still some do believe. They believe so deeply and want it so much that they rush the process. Eventually, in their desperate quest to find it they project things onto people that never existed. Others know full well they aren’t there at all, but the idea is that it’s better than being alone. Right?

When actively looking for something it seems hopelessly out of sight. It’s a search for a gold cache in the black hills while the wind bites especially hard.

The Zen masters advise us not to seek, for all shall come to us; to enter every situation without expectations; to substitute thinking for doing, and reacting; to get back to us, to simply BE. This is sound advice, and it starts somewhere near here.

Part the first, I think...

By living without the censorship of self-conscious thought, we project a clear, complete version of ourselves. We are confident, motivated, inspired. We learn, live and grow. We are beautiful in this way.

Part the second is to infuse love into everything we do. If everything we do is done out of love, from cleaning to cooking, to writing to painting, to sculpting our bodies to clearing our driveways of old, wet leaves (that mostly aren’t ours in the first place, but anyway--) we send this power out as a signal, a beacon whereby our match can correspond, wherever they are.

I guess for those languishing alone, it’s about nurturing not just the hope but the faith that if our eyes and ears and hearts are always open, if we trust in the goodness of the world and dance to its music, we will find that person. If we lose them, we’ll find them again...

I Hope...

For those who have settled into loveless, empty, plateaued relationships, remember you are entitled to something much better. We really DO have everything we need to be happy on our own, I think, though some days, maybe even a good stretch of days, the solitude can become torturous.

There is a small upside to it all: there is more than one perfect match. In fact by this logic, we may have a few soul mates. In one lifetime, though rare, we may discover more than one other incarnation of our souls. If we let our own receptors operate, they'll sense it when it comes near. It’s important we don’t dull them with the banter of our minds, our anxieties, our bitterness, our crises, etc..

Never lose patience. Don’t be afraid to be alone for a while. Listen for the thunder. Remember, they are looking for us as well.

All The Love Gone Bad, (More Musings on Love, Part One)

"..Turned my world to black..."

(It’s been almost a month since my last post. I have no excuse; other than my center of abstract thought took a vacation and the more languid part of my brain covered his hours. My muse is fickle, and I’ve just generally been in a bit of a rut. For those that read, I’m grateful, and I will try and keep up in the future.)

In my life I’ve been treated to a Whitman’s Sampler of how the bonds of love and relationships are cheapened and perverted.

In my own family I’ve seen people settle time and again for second, third, or even places where medals aren’t usually handed out.

It’s been one divorce after another. Bickering, slandering; no evidence that anything higher, or stronger than enmity and hostility ever existed. Everyone literally hates everyone else. What they think they have is transparent and empty, and they jump from one person to the other, using them up and moving on. It’s as though their relationship with each other is no different than their relationship with a pair of shoes, or a rental car.

All around me, peers, friends, neighbors and still more family have been continuously unfaithful and abusive towards one another. Both ends lack any real sense of appreciation for, or understanding of the other. They are impatient with one another and selfish. They stare at every other passerby muttering "I wish..." They become estranged.

So, I know what love isn’t. But I know what it is too; the three magic words and the weight they carry. Sometimes you recognize a person by their scent, their taste, their voice; the tactile memory of their skin. In darkness, in complete and utter blackness you can find your way back to them. No measure of depth or breadth space or time could keep you from seeking that person's light.

When bathed in that light, each one of our faculties is set ablaze. With them we are constantly learning, and discovering new places geographic or otherwise. Everything we are, everything we offer shines and washes over one another.

Around them we are inspired, motivated. Their presence pushes us to try harder. Behind their eyes are this life and energy, as well as warmth and support and kindness.

With them we share the similarities, of course, but just as many differences. Maybe "differences" is the wrong word. I hate the term "opposites attract." There are no "opposite" forces, only complimentary ones. Two people compliment one another.

It’s a waltz: each one takes a lead, while the other feels out the steps and follows unselfconsciously, discovering and exploring and learning anew. Each one offers the other a new perspective, a new way of looking at the world, at something they may have missed, or a glimpse into something totally different. Over time, it evolves and matures, becoming as Bruce Lee observed "like coals, deep burning and unquenchable."

Then there’s the physical component.

Yeah. Sex.

Often called lovemaking by representatives of the R&B and Soul communities. I know. I was never too fond of the term either. Isn’t it just another PC, Billboard Top 40 term for sex, the overly Christianized canonization of fucking?

No. At least lately I don’t think so. Its sex in the context of love: Unselfish, often spontaneous, and untiring. It is to be so close, intertwined so complexly and deeply that neither person can tell where they begin and the other ends. Their breaths are synchronized; they know each others' rhythms, compliment their movements. They’ve memorized every curve. One pushes and the other pulls. One pulls, and the other pulls harder.

Think it can’t ever be this good? That I’m over-hyping it? Think sex is overrated? Then you aren’t doing it right.

If it all sounds rare, bordering on impossible to some, that’s because, well, it is. To find another who evokes all this inside is to catch a bolt of lightening in a glass bottle. Timing it just right; listening for it, reading it and being in the right spot because it never reveals itself there more than once. Then there’s having to courage not to flinch. It’s a lot isn’t it? It doesn’t always happen. But it can. And once in a while, it does...