Don't wanna sleep, don't wanna die, just wanna go a-travelin' through the pastures of the sky.
I was sitting in Borders, with the love of my life, when I realized perfection exists. We all have the wrong idea of perfection. Anyway, with him beside me we go through all sorts of different sections of the store. The store is crowded; fluorescent lights that would be hot on the faces of faceless consumers, without the cool, refreshing promise of air conditioning, illuminate our path. I watch the people talk and listen and try. People are always trying. They are jockeying for postions, attempting impress someone they are with by speaking loudly about parallelism, worst of all- some of them are hunting down self-help books. The place is chaotic and busy and sort of planned, like nothing unexpected could ever happen to you there; that is how I always feel about bookstores. My Tiffany's. My haven. My sanctuary.
We look at the contemporary things on display, I point to a book I've read, and explained why I didn't like the author. He listened. We walked to the other side of the shelf, where we simultaneously pointed to The Giver, by Lois Lowry and then evniced our love for the novel; we admit it was our favorite book in 4th grade. We move as a unit, hand in hand or arms intwined; we are a constant fumbling contact. we reach the back of the store, which is more dimly lit. We stop in the religion/theology/philosophy section. We find books with titles or concepts that we find hilarious and show them to eachother, The Complete Idiot's Guide to...Jesus and What is a Jew? and The Pagan Christ are put on display. The Idiot's Guide turns out to be something sort of funny and The Pagan Christ is actually full of fantastic ideas. We realize something trite, you know; you can't judge a book by it's cover.
As anyone who has even been to borders with me knows, there is an inevitable visit to the "psychology/sexuality" section. I find the calendar Betsy and I found what seems like a million days ago after school last year. I decide I need to buy one and put it in my car, along with my Torah, Bible, and Koran, when I obtain all of those items. We talk openly, well, I talk openly about anatomy and sex toys and he listens uncomfortable. I feel nearly guilty exposing someone so innocent and pure to all of this so fast. I also feel like a hero for showing them the world in a beautiful light. I am a guilty hero.
We find some depressing books, like "If men are like buses, how do I catch one?". Yes, I quoted the title on purpose. It is not a book, a novel, a work of literature; it is a waste, a problem, a piece of trash. We start one of our beautiful discussions on life, capitalism, commericialism, marketing, death, salinger, fitzgerald...we communicate. We think together. We feel together. We are like minded. As we sit in the aisles, though I am still, I am falling. Everything he says makes me weak. I fall. Every time I see his mouth form, his lips parting, everytime I gain the knowledge that I am about to hear an idea born from his mind, I am excited; but weakened upon its actual arrival into my environment.
I thought I was in love, but I'm still falling. Everytime I think I'm about to hit the ground, I just fall even deeper.
Perfection does exist.
The bookstores are my Tiffany's, because they're full of diversity. I can find something there that is beautiful, hilarious, depressing, morbid, thoughtful, provactive, engaging, didactic, challenging, convincing, or simply intersting. I am never stuck. Even if I read every single book in the store, the next time it I read I will get something more out of it. I am never bored. I could never describe everything in a bookstore in less than a million pages; I've found a person I could never begin to describe, even if I had one hundred million pages to do so on.
Later that night, he tells me I appear "jovial". I fall.
Maybe Truman Capote was wrong and George Axelrod was right. Then again, I'm not Holly Golightly, but neither was she.
We look at the contemporary things on display, I point to a book I've read, and explained why I didn't like the author. He listened. We walked to the other side of the shelf, where we simultaneously pointed to The Giver, by Lois Lowry and then evniced our love for the novel; we admit it was our favorite book in 4th grade. We move as a unit, hand in hand or arms intwined; we are a constant fumbling contact. we reach the back of the store, which is more dimly lit. We stop in the religion/theology/philosophy section. We find books with titles or concepts that we find hilarious and show them to eachother, The Complete Idiot's Guide to...Jesus and What is a Jew? and The Pagan Christ are put on display. The Idiot's Guide turns out to be something sort of funny and The Pagan Christ is actually full of fantastic ideas. We realize something trite, you know; you can't judge a book by it's cover.
As anyone who has even been to borders with me knows, there is an inevitable visit to the "psychology/sexuality" section. I find the calendar Betsy and I found what seems like a million days ago after school last year. I decide I need to buy one and put it in my car, along with my Torah, Bible, and Koran, when I obtain all of those items. We talk openly, well, I talk openly about anatomy and sex toys and he listens uncomfortable. I feel nearly guilty exposing someone so innocent and pure to all of this so fast. I also feel like a hero for showing them the world in a beautiful light. I am a guilty hero.
We find some depressing books, like "If men are like buses, how do I catch one?". Yes, I quoted the title on purpose. It is not a book, a novel, a work of literature; it is a waste, a problem, a piece of trash. We start one of our beautiful discussions on life, capitalism, commericialism, marketing, death, salinger, fitzgerald...we communicate. We think together. We feel together. We are like minded. As we sit in the aisles, though I am still, I am falling. Everything he says makes me weak. I fall. Every time I see his mouth form, his lips parting, everytime I gain the knowledge that I am about to hear an idea born from his mind, I am excited; but weakened upon its actual arrival into my environment.
I thought I was in love, but I'm still falling. Everytime I think I'm about to hit the ground, I just fall even deeper.
Perfection does exist.
The bookstores are my Tiffany's, because they're full of diversity. I can find something there that is beautiful, hilarious, depressing, morbid, thoughtful, provactive, engaging, didactic, challenging, convincing, or simply intersting. I am never stuck. Even if I read every single book in the store, the next time it I read I will get something more out of it. I am never bored. I could never describe everything in a bookstore in less than a million pages; I've found a person I could never begin to describe, even if I had one hundred million pages to do so on.
Later that night, he tells me I appear "jovial". I fall.
Maybe Truman Capote was wrong and George Axelrod was right. Then again, I'm not Holly Golightly, but neither was she.