The Books


Once upon a time there were books. Hard angled, sharp cornered rectangles with slivers in between. Slippery inked characters ran the page black and white. No color was necessary for pictures made of letters.

The books were complicated. Happy, but conflicted. Arrogant with the self aggrandizement that can only come from small sizes, the books had something to say.

“The History of Mankind”. Medical journals devoted to all aspects of the chest. The hunger of a whale.

“Don’t forget,” they all seemed to say. “I’m still here.”

Books went into shelves and then several cases. Crammed together with no structure, The Most Beautiful Woman in Town sat next to Lonesome Dove, stale Atlantic covers and Allure magazine. Too many words clanged against one another.

“This is too dusty a life these days,” McCall could be heard complaining.

“Have you tried page whitener?” Beauty magazines were shoved to the back.

The direction was unclear. There were words of self help. “Don’t think: Just Do.” mixed with fairy tale warnings, “always listen to your mother-in-law.”

When the book cases were full, they were kept in kitchen cabinets. Out went the dishware. Out went the pans. Words stayed in cramped spaces and roll-out drawers for silver.

When the kitchen was taken over, books piled under the bed. The sneaky books took to hiding. Narcotics Anonymous. How To Be Single. Ipod for Dummies. Quieter, but ever present, there they stayed. All the books. Softly chattering throughout an apartment worth of sentences.

Once upon a time there was not enough space. With every story came inches lost. Ingested into the head, they moved from the physical sphere to the mental and when it was time to go, they came with. Boxes of characters in square structured places. All books find a home.

The Present


Dear Present,

Thank God we’re over the past. It was an ugly time for anyone, but especially hard on us. There were times when it seemed you would never get here, but I knew you were stuck in time.

I know you think I was running from you, but really, who wouldn’t? You were so creepy with your insistence on everything now. Images of bad 90s workout videos to songs like Pump Up The Jam were a constant threat to my reality. Would anyone want to listen to that when Jane Fonda seemed so much better?

Everything looks better in Sepia. Even those bowl haircuts that boys used to have. Now they’re almost cute. Now that they aren’t around anymore. What is it that goes on now that will look better in the future? I know. I know. It doesn’t matter, it’s not happening. Future and past don’t exist.

But let me ask you one thing, before we figure it out. Did you ever say to someone “Live in the moment” only to laugh at yourself? Just for a minute. Disregarding the idea that you truly believe what you say, did the humor ever reach you, when you truly wished it wouldn’t?

Which moment, is what I want to know, did you decide you weren’t my future?

I enjoy what we’ve got going on right now and I’m not trying to give you grief.  But please, let me know: if you want to go further, I can always take you back.



The Book

mrs bridge

The book, Mrs. Bridge by Evan S. Connell sat half over turned on Alice’s blue flannel comforter. It was her favorite book. Although she had read it several times before, every so often when she was feeling nostalgic, she would pick it up again only to be delighted by the friends sentences could make. The book was about a quiet desperation that a wife/mother felt during the fifties and sixties. Although the book had a limited vocabulary and was written in chapters no more than a page or two, it was still the most profound book she had ever read.

So when she went to a party one night and found herself talking to man in black dress pants and a button down shirt, she was pleasantly surprised that he should ask her what her favorite book was.

“I personally like Hemingway, myself,” He said with an air of sophistication. “I tried to get into Camus when I was in college, but just couldn’t bare The Stranger. One needs more than just existentialism.” Alice couldn’t help but notice his button down had the distinct logo of a horse and jockey riding across his chest.

Alice nodded her head. “Yes, certainly,” she said, trying to remember what Hemingway wrote. Her father had mentioned that Hemingway had written something about traveling, but where she couldn’t quite remember.

“I’m so glad you agree. The beatniks didn’t so much write as type. But someone’s already said that,” he chuckled.

Not knowing exactly what the man meant, she smiled and fumbled for her glass of water.

“So, if you don’t like the existentialists, what do you like to read?” His persistence suddenly irked her.

She thought of the memoirs she often read involving mostly women with hard childhoods and the clever ability to survive at all costs. Somehow this didn’t seem as literary as Hemingway. She thought of the books in high school that she was expected to read. Of Mice And Men was her favorite, but high school seemed like such a long time ago and she wondered if he would think her square for mentioning a required read. Then she thought of Mrs. Bridge.

Surely he wouldn’t know Evan S. Connell and in fact, his book was already out of print. Even if he did search the corners of Barnes and Noble, he still might not be able to find it. Perhaps she could seem more worldly with a look of surprise when he announced he did not know Evan Connell. Oh, really? You haven’t heard of him? She pictured herself touching the chain necklace just above her collarbone. An air of mystery would surround her.

But then again, what if he did know the book? What if he, or more likely a roommate or a friend of his, had read the book and he found even the mention of it boring. What could a piece of writing devoted to the simple tasks of staying at home possibly offer to this man?

“Well,” Alice finally said, fingering her chain necklace. “There’s so many, I’d have to get back to you on that. But yes, Hemingway is quite good. Have you been to Europe?”