Go Sit in the Corner

Go sit in the corner of any library.  A bookstore will do but for me there are too many distractions in a store.  (Ignore that really cute guy over there in the Self-Improvement Section.  Besides, if he requires self-improvement, you don’t need him.  And there are no coffee shops loaded with chocolate and caffeine in libraries.)  Relax and sit.  (Turn off the Inner Critic and the rock music.)  Sitting and thinking is something we have trouble accomplishing now-a-days.  Don’t read and no people watching.  Just sit there and study all the bookshelves full of books.  Take in the overall picture.  Now focus in on just one section.  Doesn’t matter what section it is; just spotlight that area in your mind.  See it?  Okay, check out just one bookshelf.  Is it sagging or leaning against its neighbors from tiredness of holding up the weight of all those tomes?  Now focus in on the shelf second from the bottom.  Is it full or are there spaces where someone had to bend over to study the titles and remove a book?  Are they all the same height or resemble a snaggletooth Halloween pumpkin grinning back at you?  Are they that dusty brown of old books or a rainbow of photo-shopped covers?  Pick one book.  Doesn’t matter which one, you’re not going to read it or even touch it.  Just pick one and study it.  Imagine how it will feel.  Old books have texture on the outside where new ones are smooth.  How much weight will it have against your hand?  Can you hold it in one palm while drinking coffee with the other or is it so large you have to cradle it in both hands?  Crack it open.  Does it smell of old paper or that inky smell some books have?  (I love finding things previous readers have stuck between the pages.  I recently found an Amtrak stub.  At least someone is getting out, just not me.)  Examine one page.  Is the paper so thick you can’t tell if you’re turning one page or two or is so tissue thin, you’re afraid to touch it?  Look at the paragraphs filling up the page from top to bottom, margin to margin.  Is the print so large you wonder if there weren’t enough words to fill up the whole book or is the font so tiny you need extra strength reading glasses?  Sentences composed of work after word.  Don’t read but look at the pattern across the surface.  Straight lines, curves and dots all swimming on a sea of white.  One letter snuggling up to the next, letters building to make one word, words strung together to compose one sentence, sentences stretching into paragraphs.  Now back out and look at the page, the book, the shelf of books, the bookshelf full of books, the entire section of nothing but book laden bookshelves (that guy’s mustache … no, stop that, no distractions) and the entire library filled with nothing but books.  (And yes, the DVD’s, audio books and ebooks count because they’re made up of words too.)  Now think about this.  No matter what method was used from quill, pencil, pen, typewriter, word processor or computer, every one of those books started with an idea and a blank white page where someone wrote just one very first word.  Enough first words written on that bare white sea to fill up this library and all the libraries across the world.  So why are you sitting in the corner of the library (looking like a geek with no book, staring off into space and the mustache left) instead of going home and facing that empty page.  Remember, it only takes just one first word to get started.                    

Interpretation

How come characters in books and movies are never sitting around playing computer games while the stereo blares in the background, the television sans sound is showing a repeat of a repeat and they’re stuffing themselves with beer and popcorn?  I mean how boring is that?  Oh wait, that’s me.  

Even the SSLF’s (Smart Single Ladies of Fiction) have more exciting chapters than that.  Their scenes go something like this:  “While I ran the dishwasher, started a load of laundry, put the roast in the oven (just in case the lead male character shows up), had Mozart mumbling in the background, sipped on a glass of Merlot dressed in designer jeans and silk T-shirt, my bare toes pressed into the fur of my Afghan Wolfhound lying on the clean floor at my feet, I sat at the kitchen island and discovered the missing papers hidden in the ancient family bible I had stolen by breaking into my neighbor’s house proving he is the serial killer and … what’s that noise, someone tampering with the lock on the fifth floor balcony door and why isn’t the security system going off?”  

Let’s interpret that into reality … okay, my reality.  The dishwasher is me and a sink of hot water.  The laundry is in the trunk of my car waiting for me to actually stop at the coin laundry with both coins and detergent (which will freeze in the winter) at the same time.  You can’t use my oven, it’s full of pots and pans that don’t fit into the kitchen cabinets and the roast is a chicken boiling on top of the stove.  Rock is the music of choice and the volume level is on high (any more appliances and the circuit breaker will blow), the Merlot sports a screw cap, my jeans are torn which I guess could make them fashionable but not fit for public appearance dependent of where the rips are and my tee-shirt is spotted from where I forgot the chicken was on the stove and it boiled over.  My toes are bare but the floor is far from clean and I’m almost sure the mutt had developed fleas.  The kitchen island is a secondhand table where all four legs reach to different heights so the wine isn’t level in the juice glass but it is rapidly sinking.  And the only thing I ever found in a book was a really nice bookmark in a library book the library probably thought I had stolen (the book, not the bookmark which I did steal) because I kept it for so long.  I don’t’ know my neighbors, serial or otherwise, me and the mutt are the only security on site and the only person whoever broke in was my drunk daughter in the middle of the night without her shoes, cell phone or bra but managed to remembered the key to my backdoor and where said door was located among all the others that look just like it on the public parking lot.  She wasn’t that good at the keyhole and the only thing going off is me at the computer.

So the moral of the story is, it’s not how you live your life, it’s how you interpret it and with a good imagination you can turn dust into gold, turn cds into symphonies, turn water into … wait, someone already did that one … and turn the mutt into a single man with a steady job who doesn’t lie and can cook.  I really do have a wild imagination.  And this piece can count as the blog for this week so I can get back to the important stuff like ignoring reality and playing computer games.