Bookstore (revised)

I handed the girl my books and my discount card. She looked the titles over as she rang them up–a bit too much attention for my taste. Then, yes, a remark; I was tuned to its inevitability and tightened up a bit. I don’t remember it exactly: “I love this one. Jane Eee-ree. Have you read it?” My discomfort was then instantly doubled, and I choked out something like: “It’s on my daughter’s summer reading list.” She made another comment as she handed me my receipt, but I had withdrawn my attention at that point, and her curious speech patterns had garbled it anyway. I was dizzy with awkwardness. Was it a response? Something new? Taking it further? I smiled and offered a placating nod as I headed for the door.

O the thoughts I had. O the comments I formulated. O the irony I mustered. And of course it was a chain store, a floating ship of corporate mega-death. And so on.

It’s been three days and I can’t forget her smile. It was ceaseless, endless. It was present, fixed, from the moment I saw her see me approach the counter. It was, to use the formerly fashionable post-structuralist phrasing, “always already there.” And it was obscenely authentic. Not polite. Not professional. Joyous. She seemed happy to be there doing what she was doing. Happy helping me. Happy to talk with a stranger about books.

She loved Jane Eee-ree. I have no way of knowing what reading is for her. Because, for one thing, I didn’t ask her, even though I had the opportunity. She spoke of love. I offered distracting excuses for being there. Something about her radiated a truth about bookstores and why people read and why reading is a way to love. I’m the one who wanted the corporate exchange: just give me my empty abstract product and leave me alone.

I told myself she was in some way a “special needs” person, as if I needed to give myself a satisfying and condescending explanation of why I was so uncomfortable. But, really, after three days to think about it, I’ve stopped plugging up my feeling with that kind of explanation. She was memorable. Fiercly memorable. I can’t forget her smile. Her profession of love. Her Jane Eee-ree. And as my misery wells up I tell myself other things. I can’t leave it alone. I know she is too happy with what she does and with her Jane Eee-ree to ever start wars, cheat people out of their money, snub, back-bite, hold a grudge. A philosopher and sage had the good sense to hire her for that job. On and on I go with the things I tell myself. I know I’m still being condescending, but guilt does that. Not really fair to her. Truth be told, all I really know is what she told me: she loves Jane Eee-ree. That prompts me to offer one last truth: I have never actually read Jane Eee-ree.

Bookstore

I handed the girl my books and my discount card.  She looked the titles over as she rang them up–a bit too much attention for my taste.  Then, yes, a remark; I was tuned to its inevitability and tightened up a bit.  I don’t remember it exactly:  “I love this one.  Jane Aye–ree.  Have you read it?”  My discomfort was then instantly doubled, and I choked out something like:  “It’s on my daughter’s summer reading list.”  She made another  comment as she handed me my receipt, but I had withdrawn my attention at that point, and her curious speech patterns had garbled it anyway.  I was dizzy with awkwardness.  Was it a response?  Something new?  Taking it further?  I smiled and offered a placating nod as I headed for the door.

O the thoughts I had.  O the comments I formulated.  O the irony I mustered.  And of course it was a chain store, a floating ship of corporate mega-death.  And so on.

It’s been three days and I can’t forget her smile.  It was ceaseless, endless.  It was present, fixed, from the moment I saw her see me approach the counter.  It was, to use the formerly fashionable post-structuralist phrasing, “always already there.”  And it was obscenely authentic.  Not polite.  Not professional.  Joyous.  She seemed happy to be there doing what she was doing.  Happy helping me.  Happy to talk with a stranger about books.

She loved Jane Aye-ree.  I have no way of knowing what reading is for her.  Because, for one thing, I didn’t ask her, even though I had the opportunity.  She spoke of love.  I offered distracting excuses for being there.  Something about her radiated a truth about bookstores and why people read and why reading is a way to love. I’m the one who wanted the corporate exchange:  just give me my empty abstract product and leave me alone.

I told myself she was in some way “special,”  as if I needed to give myself a satisfying and condescending explanation of why I was so uncomfortable.  But, really, with three days to think about it, I now tell myself she was not so much special as memorable.  I can’t forget her smile.  Her profession of love.  Her Jane Aye-ree.  And as my misery wells up I tell myself other things.  I can’t leave it alone.  I know she is too happy with what she does and with her Jane Aye-ree to ever start wars, cheat people out of their money, snub, back-bite, hold a grudge.  A philosopher and sage had the good sense to hire her for that job.  On and on I go with the things I tell myself.  I know I’m still being condescending,  but guilt does that.  Not really fair to her. Truth be told,  all I really know is what she told me:  she loves Jane Aye-ree.  That prompts me to offer one last truth:  I have never actually read Jane Aye-ree.

Assignment 2010.n+1 – Soup to nuts

Jeff called me earlier tonight to share an inspiration he had while listening to NPR.  I’m certain I will mangle some portion (or perhaps all) of what we discussed, but I will make an effort to recount it with you just the same.

He heard a story of a group of folks that would get together and support projects by combining small donations.  This reminded him of a group he used to be a part of that would gather periodically, each bringing their own soup with them as a meal.  These concepts, along with a dash of Lichtenbergianism, inspired the idea I will now share.

What IF:

We met, as a group, at a regularly scheduled interval (say, once a month).  The location of this meeting would rotate amongst the ash-bound (as available anyway) to host.  Each attendee would bring 3 things: soup (or some form of self-nourishment), $10, and their attentiveness.  The latter would be used to consider the presentations of various artists with projects in mind that a small donation would help make possible.  At the end of the evening, those donating would place in a hat the name of the project they would like to support.  The top vote getter would receive the collected funds with the understanding that they would come to later meetings to share their progress.  In this way, we have an excuse to meet and a consistent way to act as microfinanciers of local artists.

Jeff, please correct any mistakes when you escape the technology void that is Mississippi.

What do y’all think?

Assignment?

I found this link through one of my favorite blogs, and thought it rather amazing in its own right.  After a few minutes, I thought it might make an interesting assignment/challenge for one of the proposed film festivals.  The page uses only cupcakes, but I think (with what you will find at the link as inspiration) that we might expand on that a bit.  Both sweet and savory, as well as other forms of edibles than cupcakes could be used as the medium.  I think “Blockbusters” might make a reasonable source of inspiration.  What sayeth the brotherhood?

Final Arrangements

Sounds grim when I put it that way, eh? I’ve sent an email out to the folks that indicated they were going to participate in the First Annual Lichtenbergian Retreat. If you plan on going and didn’t get the email, either comment here or sent me a note post-haste. If you got the email, please respond (in poor Lichtenbergian form) immediately. I need your feedback to close this loop.