Spines sprawled with words (part one)

The first library I encountered was located in St. Charles, a suburban city an hour West of Chicago. It was on the other side of town, on a small hill that towered above the street, covered in dark brick and somewhat obscured by trees. I came to associate the library with other worlds, not only because the books within suggested this, but the construct itself was distant and unlike anywhere else, except maybe the museum, another beloved sanctuary of artifacts. The public library in St. Charles may have had two floors, but I only recollect the first, where the children's and young adult books rested. The ceiling was low, the space overwhelmingly white and airy. During one notable visit, I roamed the tall stacks of the section for intermediate readers. There was a promotional poster for The Whipping Boy on the wall. I became entranced with its eerie cover art with the depiction of figures on horseback traveling through the mist, while formidable creatures looked on the travelers from behind a tree. I immediately sought after a copy.

It was a slim book with a blue back. When I got home, I clutched it lovingly and ran my hands down its taut spine. The library was the harbor of books such as this - books that would transport me, and reveal previously unknown secrets. I don't recall much else about what I checked out from this library, but I do recall feeling as if I had found a place where I belonged.

The public library in Pembroke Pines, Florida was within a brand new sprawl of identical homes and shimmering swimming pools and man-made lakes. The library I was most familiar with throughout these years was within the confines of the Broward Community College. It always felt a bit too small and neglected. I recall feeling some disappointment with the rather small collection. But still, it existed, and for that I was grateful, as I was grateful for the chain bookstores. One pushed past a long, cushioned entrance arm and you were greeted by the check-out area. Past this main section one came upon a desk for the reference librarians and a childrens play area. To the right where the stacks in which I so often lingered. The first floor was the children and young adult section almost exclusively, with a small section for periodicals and mass-market paperbacks. It was among one of my first trips to this library that I was given many recommendations for books by my mother (or was it my father?) including a book that one of my parents urged me to check out that had a terrifying image of a lady's face frozen in glass on another planet. The book was Ursula K. LeGuin's The Left Hand of Darkness.

It was on that or one of these early visits that I came across another cover that haunted me. The cover showed a girl giving a furtive over-the-shoulder glance at a boarded-up house. I fixated on the house, as I was fascinated with boarded-up buildings at the time. That same day I followed my mother to the second floor where the adult fiction was kept. At her feet, I explored the spines of the books on the bottom row. The protective covers gleamed over the predominantly black covers. Many of the books I pulled were covered in bright red blood, or velvet, or suggested great romance, or a combination of the two. Perhaps we were in the mystery section? Either way, I came to associate the library with the forbidden. The luxuriousness of the imagery enveloped me like a perfume, and has clung to me since. What a divine black, the black of mystery novel covers!

It wouldn't be until a few weeks before I moved across the country at the age of sixteen that Pembroke Pines would finally get a proper public library. I was astounded that they had albums that one could check out. Though the musical selection was meager, it was still exciting for a library to have music, and movies, even. I recall checking out Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon, if only out of curiosity about what the hype was all about. The library I came to know soon enough in Auburn, Washington was, at the time, the most remarkable library to make my acquaintance. In 1999, when I moved to the state of stately trees and underground coffee reserves, the Auburn Library was about to be relocated to a brand new building. It was my great fortune than to see the Auburn Library before it transformed into the modern building in which it now resides. It smelled like "Old Library", and was clearly from the 50's or 60's. I was charmed immensely, and after sighing up to be a part of the King County Library System, checked out a huge stack of books. There was no greater delight than partaking in the books in my backyard, the lumbering trees swaying slightly far above.

Not long after, I discovered the immense music collection within the King County Library System. I was astounded by its depth, not only at the Auburn Branch, but within each branch, and the fact that you could request anything from within the system. This meant that all the bands I read about online and or heard on KCMU I could listen to, and for free! There is no question that the library altered the course of my life. I devoured music like a buffet of delicacies set out for the rich and luxurious. It was this way that I discovered the Magnetic Fields and Smog and all kinds of folk and ethnic music and everything else. It was also at the Auburn Library that I checked out dozens of books at a time. There was so much to know, and I rarely got through those books, but heaven knows I tried.

dispensary

Old pillows. The color of a milk carton. Circa midnight, or was it four a.m. The first time we went to the circus, candy was spilled in the aisles. Banisters and darkness above, it reminded me of the ocean. Arms alight slid across. The smell of freshly pressed plastic filled the air.

"What about knives and rain?"

girl on girl

I hide the girl in my hair. I am the girl, the girl. A dainty ornament, a plural of blue shades. I clutched the mirror and smeared lines down my face.

factories/graves

I am in a cafe in a small town within the confines of the Northwest region of the United States. In this cafe are booths. Some are occupied with lowered heads, concentrating on activities. The floor is rough with footsteps from throughout the day. I heard that familiar song coming through the speaker, with the words "As I hurdled down the highway, past the factories and the graves", and it reminded me of many things. I am reminded of all the times and places I have heard those words, and how every time it stirred something in me, and gestured at faint memories. I recall a few weeks ago, and hearing those words while in the midst of a town populated by casinos and commerce. It made me think of the original incarnations of my nights spent with this song. Those words are more than just hints at my times spent with them, but what they suggest. I have had a long love affair with factories, industrial settings, especially at night, smoke aglow in the darkness. I am plunged into thoughts on the historical ramifications of this setting. How it didn't exist so-and-so many years ago. How it exists now, but will cease to one day. There are small, persistent lights. Clanking softly among the trees.