As many of you know, one of my summer jobs to hold me over until grad school is a page at the library. I spend most of my shifts drifting through the stacks of books sorting and re-shelving all sorts of material. Needless to say, it's a bit tedious and my mind tends to wander. Because I still have to pay attention to which books I'm shelving, my thoughts often revolve around them and the people who may or may not have just had them in their hands that day.
Who are they? What do they look like? Why did they pick this exact book out? I have no inkling of who returned what book, because I don't check in the books I shelve. I try to imagine their lives through the books I'm taking back home to the shelves. Sometimes the thought brings a smile to my face: a first baby advice book from a dad who's more terrified and excited than he's ever been, a huge huge book of animals from a kid who can barely hold it but is enthralled by each and every pictures, or a travel book on Italy from a couple just returned from their perfect honeymoon. Other books lead to sadder stories: a heap of diet books that somehow feel unused and unsuccessful, a book on divorce law from a man resigned to a lonelier future, or trashy romance novel from someone already living that lonely future. One day I shelved one, two, three books on dealing with adult ADHD, and finally a book on living with divorce and ADHD. I paused and hoped that things would turn around that person, and I hadn't the faintest idea of who they were.
It's strange how connected I can feel to a person who is only there in the abstract sense that we touched the same object. There is a certain power and remembrance to the physical world, especially for me within the realm of books. Maybe it's the imagination that books have always invigorated when I read them manifesting in a real world story creation. Or maybe it's the fact that getting a book from the library is so direct and intended in an age of internet browsing that there has to be a reason for it. Imagined or not, there are memories that travel with me as I make my way through the rows and rows and books.
Who are they? What do they look like? Why did they pick this exact book out? I have no inkling of who returned what book, because I don't check in the books I shelve. I try to imagine their lives through the books I'm taking back home to the shelves. Sometimes the thought brings a smile to my face: a first baby advice book from a dad who's more terrified and excited than he's ever been, a huge huge book of animals from a kid who can barely hold it but is enthralled by each and every pictures, or a travel book on Italy from a couple just returned from their perfect honeymoon. Other books lead to sadder stories: a heap of diet books that somehow feel unused and unsuccessful, a book on divorce law from a man resigned to a lonelier future, or trashy romance novel from someone already living that lonely future. One day I shelved one, two, three books on dealing with adult ADHD, and finally a book on living with divorce and ADHD. I paused and hoped that things would turn around that person, and I hadn't the faintest idea of who they were.
It's strange how connected I can feel to a person who is only there in the abstract sense that we touched the same object. There is a certain power and remembrance to the physical world, especially for me within the realm of books. Maybe it's the imagination that books have always invigorated when I read them manifesting in a real world story creation. Or maybe it's the fact that getting a book from the library is so direct and intended in an age of internet browsing that there has to be a reason for it. Imagined or not, there are memories that travel with me as I make my way through the rows and rows and books.