Last Saturday, I spent several hours at Three Lives & Company, a special bookstore in Greenwich Village. It is small, quaint, and stocked with bestsellers, obscure titles, travelogues, local authors, classics, children's books, and so on. I wanted to read (okay devour) every book my fingers tumbled amorously across. Miraculously, I narrowed my massive pile down to just one, A Moveable Feast. Thrilling.
I approached the cashier and he asked, "All that time spent and just this to show for it?" I smiled and said back, "That time spent is my favorite part."
p.s. Google Books gives the best previews for perspective reads, typically the first three chapters (or more).
Empty thoughts obstruct what I love - what I long to do in the moments I’m unable, chained and stuck and stapled, forming an enemy bent to snuff what remains. Creatively I abscond, an anti-arsonist.
The bucket of flour – mine, teeters confidently on the shelf above what’s left, (now only slight smolderings of craft) so that it can bully and blanket my only motive with a film that hints teasingly toward a suffocating end.
“Children,” the teacher instructs, “the pyromaniac is one who gives in to incendiary longing, weak like the stilted victim with roots that no longer matter.”
So I am both – the anti and the obsessed, Negation for a brief, anomalous minute Only until the bucket tires of teasing and falls, leaving me (me!) languid.