There were names, a story within a story. I sounded out printed letter pairs searching for friends, curious about strangers. I had favorites, books where my name was printed several times, letters shrinking line by line. There was a time when they would stamp each book. Ka-chunk. Ka-chunk. Ka-chunk. Ten times. There was a limit for children. I would take them in my tote, keeping weight from cold linoleum.

Later, they quickly dunked a pre-stamped card, only slightly cracking open the cover at check-out. I wondered how they knew how many cards to stamp each morning, and who had the job of rolling the rubber to the next number. What happened to the unused cards? Their lists grew longer, closer to destruction, yet they remained in the box. Were there some that never left the library? Stamped and stamped again, but never slipped in pockets. At home, I breathed books. Unfamiliar smells. Coffee. Cigarettes. Curry.

I graduated to text books, old volumes, tracked by date, inventoried in ink. Names in responsible cursive. Sometimes I knew them, older brothers and sisters of my friends. I added my name to the bottom of the list, and imagined those who read before and those who would follow. Would they know me? I wrapped them tightly in grocery bags decorated with band names and logos, lyrics and icons of youth culture.

At university, I paged through used books, listening for voices in paper. I don’t write in books. I sought those closest to mint, but wondered why they were never touched. If the previous student didn’t use it, would I? Sometimes I would buy the book and later discover notes, penciled in margins in the first few chapters. What happened to the student before me? Did they drop the class? Did they know enough to pass without opening the text?

My daughter pulled a slip from one of my books and asked why it showed another name. She thought I had taken someone’s reserved book, and kept it for myself. I showed her the date on the receipt with the unfamiliar name. Kate something. December. I explained Kate must have had the book in December and left her receipt in the book to mark her place. Did Kate finish the book? Who is she?

I still smell books, and sometimes return them, repulsed. I miss the mystery. Now we have book clubs. We gather and read and reveal passions and weaknesses in therapeutic circles. Deliberate. Calculated. Organized. Scheduled. Machines keep our secrets, our trails of inquiry and entertainment. But where are the people? I want to know who last touched my book. I want to ask whether they finished, if they cried. I want to know if they read it alone, or in a crowd. Did someone sacrifice for their reading pleasure? And then I want to part, maybe to never cross paths again. A single social object to bind us for a moment.

If you suppose anything over which you have no control to be either good or bad for you, then the accident of missing the one or encountering the other is certain to make you aggrieved with the gods, and bitter against the men whom you know or expect to be responsible for your misfortune. We do, in fact, commit many injustices through attaching importance to things of this class. But when we limit our notions of good and evil strictly to what is within our own power, there remains no reason either to bring accusations against God or to set ourselves at variance with men.

We traveled the store and I searched for my lonely book. A full wall display was almost overwhelming, until I was drawn to the yellow cover. Yellow, like the paint I’ve been waiting to brush on the walls of our play area. I didn’t see the title, but opened the book and began to read. I was instantly drawn to the lyrical language and clutched the book to my chest. My friend came around the corner and I told her a book jumped out at me. She said, “Leaped out at you,” and I looked at the title, Leap. We moved on and I found a seat as she browsed poetry. I opened the book to the beginning and began to read the memoir of a woman raised in the same religion I observed for the first seventeen years of my life. Her descriptions of events and feelings mirror mine. Her questions and quirks are my own and I can’t wait to find out what she’s discovered about herself, and whether her early questions have been resolved.
After we made our purchases, we walked down the street and entered one of those pottery painting tea shops designed just for such meetings. We almost sat down to paint. I walked through the shop, touching the pots, trying to find one to represent my day. I suddenly remembered a time in my childhood where I attended a mother/daughter church event where I had to paint a ceramic jewelry box. It was actually quite pretty, in a heart-shaped, Victorian way, something I would never have in my own home now. I believe it rests now in my mother’s basement bathroom. Still plain, solid pink, a reminder of my lack of creativity, or interest. We did not invest in the experience yesterday, but may return again with our daughters. But first, I have another book to read.

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There are shelves in the front of the library near the self-checkout where the books are held for easy pickup. Next to the hold shelves, is the bookshelf of mystery.  I noticed this shelf years ago, but assumed it was not for me, or there would be some kind of obvious signage directing me to pay closer attention.  At the top of each side of the shelf are signs stating, “Explore.”  What does that mean?  For years I thought it was the travel section.  Then I noticed the shelves held multiple copies of each book, and I thought maybe they were for students in college or high school courses.

I gradually eased closer to this shelf and started picking up books.  I noticed they were all brand new, and were not of a particular theme.  If you stand close enough, you can see a small sign giving permission to check out these books.  I imagine at some point I could have asked for help, but I think I enjoy prolonging the mystery.  I have borrowed some excellent books from these shelves, though I feared rejection at the self-checkout the first time I attempted to bring one home.  No alarms sounded as I passed through the security gates with my new little treasures.

As I wrote this post, I visited the library site to get a screen shot of my items on hold.  I noticed the library now has an account on Twitter.  I sent a message requesting a book they do not have, and I received a response with a link to their system for requesting new books.  I also noticed within their Twitter feed, a brief explanation of the Explore section.

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I have more books on hand right now than I could possibly read before they are due, so I juggle and often renew. I’m currently reading Buying In, by Rob Walker. I’m enjoying it, but have discovered I still look for educational applications in everything I read. I also have some of the same troubles with his writing as I do with Lessig’s. It is difficult to filter the sarcasm in text. Sometimes I don’t quite get his point. He does provide a lot of valuable information, with each page citing multiple studies and resources. I wish I had more time to follow them.
My goal, in addition to increasing my knowledge of writing, is to eventually be comfortable spending time immersed in fiction. Since I left my job four months ago, I think I have only read one fiction novel. The rest of my reading has been concentrated on non-fiction, technology, innovation, and education books.  I have the desire to move my writing away from provocative and succinct and more toward evocative and elaborate.  I have much to learn.