Reductio Ad Absurdum

I've been feeling really in a rut lately- seems like every day the same thing. But then, on the other hand, what do I really want from life? Adventure, excitement, all that really good stuff? Life is not a movie, and there are a lot more complex problems to solve than the average hero/ine encounters. I'm not planning on being a mid-level white collar worker forever; where I go from here remains to be seen. I've actually been giving some thought to it, and think I'd like to open a bookstore when I retire. Not to make a lot of money, but because I know there are a lot of people out there who like old bookstores. I'd see them in the bookstore that I also used to frequent. Ironically, the store closed when the proprietor retired. But it was in a decrepit old warehouse building, complete with rattling old industrial blowers to keep the place more or less temperature controlled. The shelves were a mishmash of plywood shelves, metal shelves, cardboard boxes and books stacked everywhere. If there was any order to it, it eluded me. Yet the proprietor would, on request, be able to track down any book in the place, navigating between the shelves, knowing exactly where he was going. The building was ancient, the furniture not a lot newer, and the floors creaked alarmingly underfoot. It was great. If you knew exactly what you were looking for, that was good. If you had no idea, good too. A great deal of my own library came from this same store. I can recall finding a prayer book written in German, (I recognized the language from the two or three words I could decipher) and from the date, over 100 years old. I remember a sense of awe at that- this book was created all that time ago, and after what would no doubt be a long and fascinating story, came to the back room of a bookstore in New England. And to be able to appreciate things like this, even something so simple, is really a gift.

Luna Fortunata

I am Fortune's fool,
on the quick and easy
Road to Hell, or somewhere close enough
I make Time wait for me- bringing you
Tomorrow today, and yesterday
pretty soon
And the road knows my steps
the only guide
the voice in my ear,
the hand on my shoulder
The journey is
more important than the destination
She knows me, the
weary faces at the train station, my
own haggard gray face reflected
from harsh lights in a truck stop bathroom
When I was younger and older
When I was without a home, the sun
Dimly remembered in a moonless sky, to
Await the dawn-
This is my own, this life of my own making
The marks on my arms tell a story
I remember here, among the shores of
Light and peace