Parchments

When I lived in Ohio, I found a treasure trove of used books. It was an old church, renovated as a bookstore. It was creaky and drafty and I got a particular thrill of finding 'U.S. Military History' in the pulpit. The pickings were slim, but the hunt was a joy. The smell of old books is better than the smell of old money. I just want to writhe around on the floor, surrounded by old books.

I'm lucky to have three near me now. Today was Wilson's Books, in what seems to have formerly been an auto repair shop, or gas station. I found a 1949 printing of James' The American, a beautifully bound and well-maintained 1979 copy of Madame Bovary (with illustrations!), a restored edition of Plath's Ariel, and a collection of poems by Adrienne Rich.

The James has a sticker from the original bookseller. B.H. Blackwell LTD, in Oxford. I wonder what strange route it took to arrive in a sweaty little Florida town.

An excerpt from Rich...

But art requires a distance; let me be
Always the connoisseur of your perfection.
Stay where the spaces of the gallery
Flow calm between your pose and my inspection,
Lest one imperfect gesture make demands
As troubling as the touch of human hands.

from Love in the Museum

Update: My favorite thing to find is a book full of marginalia (as it sounds, notes scribbled in the margins). Ariel is FULL of scribbles from the previous owner. My favorite so far - beside the lines "It can sew, it can cook, it can talk talk talk", she has written the word OBJECTIFY.

How utterly appropriate.

Blackbirds

I spent this past weekend reading.

Alice Hoffman.

She wraps me up in her magicky dream so completely that it takes some time to shake off that fuzzy slowness and scent of honeysuckle.

Since I was very small, books were my primary escape method. Don't get me wrong, I had a perfectly happy childhood. Loving parents, lots of freedom with set and fair boundaries, a sibling playmate and a healthy rivalry. But everyone needs an escape from their reality.

Mine was reading.

Becoming so deeply involved in a book that I would nearly act as the character. Ignoring the world around me. Literally. I wouldn't hear phones ring, people talking to me, television. I would read all night and have to be forced to school, with dark circles under my eyes and my mind still replaying the last few chapters.

Good books I would read several times. I still have some of them, still read some of them. My dog-eared copy of A Wrinkle in Time. A tear-stained hardback copy of Danny, the Champion of the World.

Sometimes I wonder how much I learned from life, and how much I learned from tree pulp and printing ink.

It reminded me...

I once read a story written by a lesbian about her lover's hands, and how those hands were so intimate to her since they were used to bring her to such tumultuous joy. She describes seeing her lover shake hands with others, and her jealousy over such a casual touch to an appendage that she holds in such high esteem.

I remember the first time I encountered that feeling, watching a friend hold my precious and bend his spine back until it cracked. I had to look away, it was such an offense to both him and myself. I cradled him after, pressing his spine back in place, regretting ever having allowed her to touch him.

And again today, I offered a small taste of another precious to a man who looked at him longingly. I sat stone-faced and disapproving as the man dragged him closer and flipped him over so carelessly. I cuddled him to my chest later, as I walked swiftly away from that man's dirty fingers.

Don't look so shocked...books are my only lovers these days. But every page turned, every whiff of ink and fresh paper is to me a caress from a gentle hand.