Melancholy at Books-A-Million
The wealthy have changed hands at the top level of government. We have escaped the house to get coffee at the bookstore. As we chat, I relate a story of how Barnes and Noble survived the pandemic and are thriving by loving books and book lovers. She half listens and does the thing people do when they aren’t listening and do ask non-specific questions to appear as though they were. To add authenticity they pepper the questions with words they picked up during your diatribe.
“So, bookstores are making a come back?” And “Barnes and Noble used to be my favorite place, are they opening a new one?”
🙄
I pick a copy of Metamorphosis to try Kafka, but I am not in the mood for reading. Gregor is learning to cope with his new body — I prefer to make notes and draw in my sketchbook. I think reading is for the night today.
An old man sits across from us in the cafe flipping through a stack of magazines. It is a large stack. I can’t tell… gun magazines? Or perhaps classic cars? Probably Dog Fancy. How long has it been since someone under fifty came in and sat down with a stack of paper magazines?
I noticed when looking for Kafka a few minutes ago that the bookstore is no longer organized like a library. Books are siloed into ever smaller categories: classics, must-reads, dog books, cat books, horror, dog horror, romance, teen romance, magical romance… then there is the booktok silo. I’m so tempted to lean into booktok, but I have a personal vendetta against what I perceive is the dumbing of humanity and anything-tok is the pointy edge of that.
IMHO, long-form entertainment (which includes books) will die because the new generations will require ever shorter productions to hold their diminishing attention.
My partner’s conversation has drifted to a more serious tone. She is worried about her sister who has been fighting cancer for the last 18 months. To add insult to injury, our nephew is just now declared cancer free but still has to survive a fist-sized hole in his chest from which he must now spend two months laying about in order to recover. His mother, my wife’s sister, is at the end of her chemo but is feeling weak and in pain. Tomorrow the sister has an appointment to discuss her MRI… my lover is worried that what happened to her aunt 40 years ago is repeating itself. Cancer, treatment, death.
I worry my wife won’t recover from losing her sister. Her father passing will be sad, but expected. She expects to have her sister forever.
My own father calls to tell me he has had his heat pumps serviced. He is no longer freezing as temps plummet to the teens, he is excited the tech (a friend of mine) got him up and running so quickly. Dad is surprised we are ‘out in this weather’. But the ‘weather’ is just the cold. I wouldn’t describe it as bad weather. Just cold and grey. That is the nature of winter.
Stacy, an old friend, is now texting my significant other. I wonder what she wants, when Stacy connects, it is always problematic and there are usually long frustrating conversations that would be easily corrected by simply blocking this woman.
But for now, I'll just dribble away here in the journal and let my imagination carry me away. There are better places for fantasy than worrying about problematic people.
1/20/25 — 3pm
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