Walks - Bookshops

Today I used my lunch break to go for a walk in Bloomington. I was seeking out which way would lead to a Half Price Books, as I adore browsing their stores and this one is an Outlet, giving me visions of a larger storefront. (And, of course, a greater potential selection.).
However, it wasn't meant to be as I was  unable to locate it on foot. That was only an excuse though, because my job requires little physical movement. The idea of searching town for such a place stirred me to a brisker trot.

I love being around books as some people love clothes shopping. I go to used bookstores like my friends go to Goodwill locations. There is a thrill of a rescuer, finding treasure from among a previous owner's castaway items. But once home, I don't always try the books on for size right away. They tend to sit on a shelf until I decide my mind and mood suit that offered adventure or educational opportunity.

I think in terms of examples relating things to other things, the relationships in between concepts and reality. It is how I perceive and contextualize the world. Clothes and food are nice, but my mind is even more hungry for new information and stories through which they shall be remembered for a time. My brain at any time is like a piece of paper - scrawled over and over with new markings on top of old. These newer ones are fresher and easier to focus upon and understand the workings, but the faded areas can still come to light when held up in the right time and place.

I checked the time. I had an hour for this walk and I had already used half of it. I walked into Caveat Emptor: Used and Rare Books. Ever since noticing it a few weeks back, I intended to use one of these breaks to explore the interior. Now an opportunity had arisen and I seized it.
The front area of the store had a cd rack, filled with a mish mash of albums I had never heard nor was likely to pick up from an ignorance of their nostalgic pull. The store looked like setting in a novel, not a storybook. Not perfectly laid out and clean, as there were faded and printed comic strips hanging on the ends of shelves, handwritten sectional signs to side rooms. A setting where time forgot to move for a while. Where books feel like they are awaiting the arrival of their prince or princess to wake them from long slumber. An area where treasures could be found alongside rare-for-a-reasons (Never caught on because there wasn't anything distinctively hooking the reader.) and bland, dust-jacketless books. Nothing caught my eye, but I admit I might have been blind to their value from my inexperience life and fine literature. One thing which made me smile with inward delight were the ladders on rails on one side of the shelves which reached ceiling level. I had never seen one of these systems in person. It made me think of Beauty and the Beast animated Disney film with Belle in the beginning bookstore scene. I restrained myself from hopping on one of them and riding it to the end of a line. I was dressed professionally - it would dishonor the uniform, myself, and most importantly: the books. There is something sacred about the written word in my mind's estimation.

Still, I knew what I was likely to like and asked if there were any books by G.K. Chesterton. The man behind the counter recognized the name and told me it wasn't likely: The man's books didn't stay on the shelves long even though he had been in the grave for the better part of the last century.
I was torn between being pleased and disappointed. The former because I was happy to know that I was not alone in enjoying his works, that people far more intelligent and experienced than I had a desire to pick it up. The displeasure arose from the fact of the lack. I had been hoping to discover an older edition of one of his books, something that I couldn't just order online for cheaper.

Part of the fun of going to secondhand shops is the story to accompany the story. Where and when I got something and how surprised and delighted I was to prosper in gleaning behind the main purchasers. Buying things online may be practical, but it is unromantic and clinical. Part of the reason I want to accumulate wealth stems from a desire to be a patron of bookstores. To be able to afford paying full price for works without a voice whispering that I am spending on books what I could have done on food, lodging, and transportation expenses.

I don't think I will escape it forever, but I should like to be a part of making sure such institutions survive into the next age of humanity. Books make me very happy, and I want to be supportive of people discovering the pleasure of literature in their own tastes and ways. Good night, I am tired.

Rains - Oscillate

Last night I awoke to a storm outside my window. I was expecting an early start to my day, so I rolled over and checked my the time in the glow of my device and saw banner notifications from my social networks. I smiled, pleased that people responded to things I shared. Late night thoughts had an outlet at my fingertips, did I have anything I wanted to say? "Not really," I reflected as water fell against my window, lit by occasional bursts of lightning and punctuated by bass grumblings of thunder.

I am grateful to be alive and safe inside from the weather. I turn over and fall into a doze, knowing that I will need my rest or I will flag later on in the face of my day's demands. I keep on periodically checking how much time I have left before I need to dress for work. When that time comes, I stretch and stumble-hop to the door where I hung my clothes.

After I finish with that, I look up on my shelf for my bush hat. It is excellent shelter through days with heavy weather, whether it be the burning sun or chilling rain. I prefer the latter for many reasons. There is something cleansing about the rain. The sounds it makes whistling in the winds or shattering on the ground. Even the clap as it leaps back into the air in reaction to my footfalls. The earth drinks of heaven and remits back in evaporation what it cannot consume, a type of natural offering in the light of the sun's warmth.

There are cycles and I want to be on the positive wave of them, rising at their peaks and riding them to their depths. The joys in the highs and lows of life, wondering how it all rotates and returns to the start. Time changes the face of the world, the elements reshape where they contact. I am being renewed and learning what that means. Ever a new creature, dying every second and being resurrected on a microscopic level. The world is as it ever is, but my mind sorts out meanings and patterns, metaphors to better contextualize and understand how to respond to my environment and fellow organisms.

I am often slightly bothered by wondering who I am becoming exactly. It is easier not to think too hard about my future self's behavior, but to analyze my past actions and their consequences. Interpreting my patterns of habits and asking myself if I would like those attributes if they were to be found in someone else.

I pull away from my introspection in favor of focusing on the road ahead of me. Foster the People's album Torches plays softly from my stereo, the squeak of wipers sweeping the percussional beat of rain from my windshield. I flick the setting to double time, marveling in darkness at the pavement beneath, lit by the reflectors flashing past in the light of my headlamps. I know that roads were not always there, but for my lifetime they have been. I cannot quite picture a world untouched by these modern trailways connecting city to city. I wonder how long it would have taken me to get to my worksite in the absence of this conveyance method. What other means I might have used, what other work I might have taken if it had proved too arduous a trek.

Back to the task, I don't have to deal in fantasies. Reality is tricky enough without running these ghostly scenarios of what might have been, though it does reinforce appreciation for what I have when I am where I am. I am very thankful for all of these gifts I have been given in this age.

I pray for my friends and family, whispering petitions for their health, wellbeing, and growth between lyrics of the soundtrack to my commute. There are many songs I know about rain, though not as many about rainbows. One that I did not have on my playlist, but particularly springs to mind.

When the Rain Comes - Third Day.

"When the rain comes it seems that everyone has gone away.
When the night falls, you wonder if you shouldn't find someplace
To run and hide. Escape the pain. But hiding is such a lonely thing to do.

I can't stop the rain from falling down on you again.
I can't stop the rain, but I can hold you until it goes away.

When the rain comes you blame it on the things you have done.
When the storm fades, you know that rain must fall on everyone.
So rest awhile. It'll be alright: No one loves you like I do.

I can't stop the rain from falling down on you again.
I can't stop the rain, but I will hold you.
I can't stop the rain from falling down on you again.
I can't stop the rain, but I can hold you until it goes away.

When the rain comes, I will hold you."

If I had been in a different mood, a more contemplative and anxious desire would have reached for the song "Ready for the Storm." But that is another day. Right now I have the above song on my heart and a smile on my lips. The rain is a beautiful thing, sometimes terrifying in its fury and relentless in its intensity, but it is a part of my life. It would be the poorer without the blessing of a downpour. A reminder to look up at the clouds and know that there are things higher than myself.