Books

Before discovering the miserable state of my work schedule last night, I went to the library with my mother and little sister Aubrie. I forget how much I really like libraries ... Even in the pathetic little regional library here in town there are thousands upon thousands of books, and each one of those books (well, I assume all of them. There might be a couple of exceptions...) is the result of hours upon hours of thinking, writing, rewriting, editing. So much work, and all for what? In order that I might lay on the couch for hours and hours, or stay up until two in the morning, or sit on a barstool eating cookies and cream ice cream from my Godiva bowl, while reading it?

I wouldn't for a moment suggest that each and every book is written for me and me alone to devour and soak in and amuse myself with. Obviously that is not the case, though I do love the feeling of being alone with a book. Old books are just familiar places, with the same smells and colors that you've always imagined, even when the rest of your life has changed utterly. There is never less to a book, the second (or third or fourth or fifth) time you read it. Only more. What a miraculous, beautiful gift words are!

Last night I read Ransom My Heart "by Princess Mia Thermopolis with help from Meg Cabot." It's not one I'd recommend, but it was entertaining enough. Today I'm reading The Time-Traveler's Wife, which is excellent, with the exception of some "strong language," to use the MPAA's phraseology. I think Henry DeTamble and I must be some kind of literary kindred spirit, or else there are a lot more people like us out there. In the first chapter, Clare says, "I walk into the kitchenette in search of coffee. All the counters and the stove are covered with stacks of dishes, magazines, and other reading material. There's even a sock in the sink. I realize that Henry must have simply heaved everything into the kitchen last night, regardless. I always had the idea that Henry was very tidy. Now it becomes clear that he's one of those people who is fastidious about his personal appearance but secretly slovenly about everything else."

Take a bow, Audrey Niffenegger. You've got me nailed. Me and, if I suppose rightly, thousands of secret slovens, who walk the streets like perfect Type A neat-freaks, knowing full well that there's not a thing folded in their closet that they've worn since their (approximately) quarterly cleaning spasm, and that there are no less than seven unwashed cups and mugs that have been deposited about their quarters with reckless abandon. Though, of course, we fastidiously-dressed-and-yet-secretly-slovenly people never think of such things, except to admire the collection of cups that inevitably amasses on bedside tables, or to notice that our favorite mug is sporting a 2-week old tea bag crowned with a fine crop of fuzzy gray mold. Somehow, these things do not bother us, because they are our own, and because we are usually the only ones who see them.

This is why we need other people to live with us who have some degree of true Type A cleanliness, in the hope that their scrutinizing eyes will produce enough insecurity to result in, at the very least, sanitariness, if not also orderliness.

But I'm jumping ahead of myself. And, in all likelihood, freaking you all out. (Though it's not as though you aren't aware of this to some extent. I promise I won't leave moldy tea bag mugs lying about the apartment! Haha.) What I mean to say is that, in reading this book, The Time-Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger, I feel to have bonded with Henry. The trouble is that, the more bonded to a character I feel, the more connected with their emotions I feel. And right now, Henry is feeling lonely and depressed. I, therefore, am feeling lonely and depressed. Or at least, I was until I put the book down and picked up an old favorite, Who Stole the Wizard of Oz? by Avi.

I first read this book in second grade. I think I must have borrowed it from the library about ten times, because the periodic pencil illustrations are branded in my memory. I never suspected this, having all but forgotten about the book until I was at the library last night and Aubrie was trying to find a new book to read. I couldn't remember the name of the book, although I could see the cover clearly in my mind, and recalled things about a town built up like a checkerboard, something to do with stolen books, and the word "Oz" being in the title. All I can say is thank goodness for library computer catalog searches. When I finally found it on the shelf, I was shocked at how small it was. For one, it was a paperback, and I had always borrowed an old hardcover from my elementary school library. The font was huge, and for a moment I was embarrassed to show this book to my sister, a fifth grader, and tell her that it was just about my favorite book in all of my childhood. (Others include The Westing Game and From the Mixed Up Files of Ms. Basil E. Frankweiler. You notice a pattern? Funny, that ...)

Gawkish though I felt, and practically watching the words "Are you seriously going to ask me to read that kinder-book, Kayla?" spell themselves out on my little sister's forehead, I urged her to borrow the book. After all, she didn't HAVE to read it. Whether she did or didn't, I was going to. And this I did, just before writing this post. The book that, in all likelihood, took me at least a couple of days to finish as an eight year old took me all of 25-ish minutes this evening. The illustrations were so familiar they seemed like ghosts in my head. I remembered enough of the book to remember the main points of discovery in the book, and as a pseudo-adult, I was shocked at how weak the plot was. (Really, the kids just "understand" how the pieces should fit together all of a sudden? Doubt it!) But still, it was a delightful read, a delightful jump back in memory. Almost like a jump back in time.

I wonder what I would tell myself, if I, like Henry DeTamble, could go back in time and talk to little me. I wonder what little me would tell big me.

It sounds like one of those post-Christmas break projects, doing stuff with New Year's and whatnot, like, "Write a letter to yourself in 10 years." Or five or whatever. Except it's always right after they've taught you how to write a polite letter, and tell you that you need to ask some questions, so it's a two-way conversation, and not just a snotty "BLAH BLAH BLAH ME ME ME MY LIFE MY LIFE MY LIFE." (Which is really all it seems that most of our communications are these days, with texting and Facebook and Twitter and crap, wouldn't you say? We're all so self-absorbed ...) For me, I always took what I was saying in those things way too seriously. I would compose each sentence after five minutes of thought, simultaneously feeling stupid for even doing the dumb project and knowing it would end up in the trash anyways. In elementary school, everything was so timed. So I never got to finish letters to myself, and they'd end up short, pathetic (or, conversely, embarrassingly verbose) letters that had no content and all questions. Like little me thought nothing in my life was worth telling an older, smarter me, and that I had no worthy advice to offer.

On the one hand, I admire my own humility (how bass-ackwards is that??) and the fact that I had a sense of elders and youngers and knowing my place in "society," even if that society were only me, in and through my various ages.

On the other hand, I feel a kind of tragic sense of loss, like there was some kind of insight little me could have shared, only I missed out on it because I was too busy asking myself how I am. ... Ay caramba.