goldmourn (amberdawnpullin) wrote,

disconnection = reactivation

Saturday, December 8th, 2007

{Location: @ my desk in my apartment}

I've been awake a couple hours and my intention was to immediately start a journal entry while the dream residue still clung, but I ended up going through 4000 songs to select a playlist instead.

> >
There was a job advertisement for someone to take over this old man's bookstore. I inquired, being interested and unemployed, but he wanted a man to manage the business, not a woman.

Books of all ages and genres cluttered poorly constructed worn out shelves, lining the walls and forming narrow rows so that all one could see anywhere they looked were books and more books. Disorganized and uncategorized, I couldn't imagine anyone finding anything unless they were hunting for treasure or were the old man himself, who I assumed had each book placed methodically inside his head.

I could do something with this store. I could sort through the books, donate the ones that would never sell in a million years (though perhaps a museum might be interested in some of the items, or a small store in Toronto that specializes in selling junk to those who find it fashionable) and I could see that, at the very least, I would be able to organize the books so that customers might enter the room without feeling immediately overwhelmed, turning tail as they generally do.

Did he only want a man, or someone who resembles a memory of himself, with the hope that things would remain unchanged? The layers of dust on the floor, the papers (utility bills from the fifties?) cast among the sea of paperbacks afloat a visibly unstable table. Perhaps that was a consideration: that one item moved might dislodge a sliver in the limb of the old wooden furniture - a domino effect set in motion at the slightest dislocation of innumerable years of anchorage.

This store was the old man's sea. He placed the job ad because he knew he was lost at it.

With each year that passes, the changes outside his cluttered window displayed not merely the seasons and change of style, but things that classic sci-fi writers themselves couldn't have imagined! Yes, a world of pod people – but the pods placed in their ears, of all places! Information not pinned to paper but flying fast through cables and wires! So much knowledge but such noise! People knowing more (admitting only to himself that his great-grandchildren knew of things he himself wouldn't dare contemplate, disturbing things that even now he wouldn't want to know) oh yes, so much more knowledge it seemed, but so little coming from books. Books! Books were the source of knowing, of relaying information, of going places! For centuries, surely, or at least the one this man was close to completing.

It wasn't always like this.

When he first opened, this little store was one of the most successful in the city, second only to entertainment places like the dancing hall, the bowling alley, the long-since abandoned main street theatre. He remembers the scent of his wife, her skirt brushing past him, her hair, perfume landing soft on him as they unknowingly danced together among the rows. The man would sweep the floors while his wife sorted the books (just the same as she did while volunteering at the local library) keeping tidy the bookshelves that he had built himself with hands that were strong - those same hands that would pull her into the back room for a moment to press her into himself. Dried flowers in hardbound books.

All of these books - a mess like the relic apartment upstairs, like his failing heart - lay wherever customers put them after browsing. Years and years of customers that became fewer and fewer. The rare curious castaway would drift in, bewildered or disinterested, float out; the hanging bell of the door still tinkling from their entrance after they leave.

I don't know what he saw when he quickly glanced at me as I handed him my resume. Did he see, coincidentally, my own experience of being a library volunteer? Or had something else unsettled him? A reminder of how she would touch his hand so briefly when he'd hand her a book from a high shelf, searching eyes looking up at him. Wanting.

Sadly, I was not the person for the job.

> >

& so the era of not having internet at home is here.
This will have the opposite affect that one would expect.
Likely, I'll compose more journal entries, as in, actually write!

There was a time when I did not / could not post photographs - not that I'll stop, in fact, I hope to share more! - when I used this journal as a place to express myself with the alphabet instead of pixels.

I know this doesn't make a lot of sense, but not having access at home seems to have unblocked my mind. I had a feeling this would happen when I had that false alarm recently.

After believing my access was cut (later to discover I had switched off the power bar, ha!) I was hiking out to an appointment across town writing an entry in my head! The words were there and the firewall which the internet had become for me immediately deactivated. Phrases, poetical thoughts and in-the-moment descriptions rushed into me.

Of course, the firewall reactivated when I turned the power bar switch back on, in turn, switching me off.

This time, when I knew it was for certain that my connections were cut off, I packed up all the equipment, re-organized my desk, and wrote in my paper journal.

& now I'm writing (here). // 12:32am

added @ the library

* I hope that apeystar doesn't mind me sharing this, but I received a Christmas card from her the other day and the message in it was just so lovely that I wanted to share & save it. Although I could disagree with the part that says I'm wonderful (the majority of the time, I am not) I do think that the rest of it is very good applicable and sound advice!
Tags: dreams & nightmares

  • Post a new comment


    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened

    Your IP address will be recorded 

    When you submit the form an invisible reCAPTCHA check will be performed.
    You must follow the Privacy Policy and Google Terms of use.