The bookworms are munching on the old paper, again. Can you hear it? Down the aisle here in the basement with the metal shelves filled with rows and rows of books. People milling about, some sitting in aisles, others whispering, silently flipping through pages. Breathing, dreaming, sighing. Why are we down here? I brought you hear to tell you a secret; because I think secrets are mysterious, intriguing, important; I think they are the fuel of curiousity, the reason why men in movies jump off exploding buildings, why painters climb scaffolding to paint great murals; why lovers lay behind bushes in parks and peek up through the tangled branches at the stars, whispering warm words into each others cochlea. Heres the secret: if you are to take any book on the shelves here, today, take this one. Hold it close to your chest, and keep walking. Walk for two miles and then sit down. Open it to any page. Read as fast as you can. Read as deeply as you can. Absorb whatever comes up. Let the story reveal itself to you. Yes, I know the book is heavy. Maybe it will weigh you down, perhaps? Or, are you the type who might see it as a challenge? A form of exercise? Yes, it has a thick blue hardcover, with that rough linen. Dusty. The pages licked by age; slightly yellowed on the edge. Why is this book so special? I see you have noticed that all the pages are blank. Good. Why are we here, standing among these billions of books, and the only one I tell you to read is the only one in this lot that is blank? Here, lets go for a walk. Shhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Out this back door. The metal is heavy, hold it open with the glass there, The rust might snag your finger. Duck behind this tree, we arent suppose to go out the back door there. See the gardener in the courtyard. Do you see how long and expert his pruning shears are? His cap is down over his brow; he is wrinkled by the sun, older, slouched in his over-alls. He looks humbled; maybe by life. By the beauty of the daylillies, the geraniums, the forsythia. Brown boots, he lifts the shears sunward; a stillness evades him. Do you ever wonder about old age? That stillness? How, if you were to talk to him, you might help him pick up a newspaper off the ground or hold the door for him, a gesture of some kind? You might lean in closer to hear his stories? Do you ever wonder about the mistakes he might have seen in his very own human life? The passion, travel, long hours working, horrible relations, the difficult affairs, the over-do bills, the marriage, the beautiful children, grown,moments of contentment, love? And yet, there he is, lifting those shears sunward in the quietness of his own being; almost zenlike, now, isnt it? His name is Charlie. We call him old Charlie around here. Our backs are pressed to the overgrown jade tree. Lets sit on that bench. Open that book again, will you? I know you will. What do you see when you stare into that blank page? Are you afraid you will see nothing? Or, that you may not like what you see? That you are confused? Amazing, isnt it? Maybe you will see a few things you always wanted taking shape on the page like a boat lifting from the water and setting sail. Maybe they are fragile ideas that you keep buried under other things; perhaps under other voices. The bantering voice of Freud and Jung, the rising voices of Murakami and Chabon, the edgy voice of miller? The fighting between Wood and Franzen, the conversation of desire between Anais and June? Perhaps its the voice of your own aunt that will crowd for space here on the corner of the page; your favorite dark modern novelist moving in over here, the voice of a musician, a friend? The birdlike librarian or that difficult philosopher? Millions of other voices, competing for your time on the red carpet of truth. The munching is getting louder inside; can you hear it? The pages are being chewed through faster. A fever pitch. Almost like there is a hollow hunger. Manic. A desire to fill it up; to read something...what are the bookworms looking for? I see you have set the book down on the bench and have looked up at the sun dappled leaves. The gardener is lifting a water bucket. You seem to be taking deep breaths. Maybe from the pages of this book, a person has the ability to see something rare: maybe they are able to actually see themselves? Their own organic, honest stories of a life rising up from that page reminding them of who they really are? A moment to push everyone else out and allow that voice at the center of your own experience to say something to you about what makes a good life? I see you have picked up the book again. You seem ready to get going. There is one thing I must warn you about before you go: there have been many sitting here before you with this very same book in their hand wondering what they will see. And, many have admitted in this very spot on this eternal bench, that as soon as they saw their own vulnerable voice rising off this page they are filled with a desire to cover it up; to arrange it into silence, to change its shape, to hide it with other things; other opinions, other voices nagging, pulling, worrying them away from themselves. Finally, because it feels easier, they let their own voice pass into oblivion. But, be warned, once your voice has been banished from the blank pages of this book, the hunger begins. Perhaps your experience will be like many? Maybe you will be one of those people? To ignore your own voice in shame? To ridicule it with the judgement you perceive from others? Maybe you will let someone elses voice interrupt you, right here on this very page, as your own fragile thoughts are beginning to develop? Or maybe, just maybe, like that rare but colorful bird, you ideas will take off and you will like the story you see when you look here? The story you are creating with your life? Perhaps a story you have been waiting for the permission to create for as long as you can remember? I dont know. Listen. My time is up. I have to go back in their and shelve some books. What? No. I love existing, I mean working in this library. I read everything. But, there is an important difference. Try it sometime. Trust me.
Posted on: Sun, 28 Dec 2014 16:56:42 +0000
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