Light slips through the cracks in between the Venetian blinds creating various geometric shapes along the expanse of the blank texture coated wall. The open window allows the soft breeze from out side to pass through these blinds and their projection begins to dance and twirl on the wall much in the same fashion as pirouetting ice skaters on the surface of a frozen lake. As the wind dies so too does the extravagant display of gentle movement and the linear images of the blinds resume their horizontal station. An insect can be heard outside furiously buzzing and slamming its exoskeleton-adorned body into the screen. What is its reasoning for persisting so? Or a better question does it even reason? Continually smashing itself against the unmoving obstacle until the exertion wears the poor thing’s energy supply to barely enough to still be able to perch itself somewhere and prepare to continue the endeavor when it has recharged. The screen never budges more than the flex created by the impact of the insect’s body. At one point, the insect will die and despite its best efforts that screen will still be there, standing defiant, impervious to the best efforts of such a “lowly” species. Beyond the seemingly futile struggle the sound of children laughing can be heard along with the patter of bare feet along the concrete sidewalk. These sounds draw closer until they pass right under the windowsill and down the path, their pitch descending as they drift farther away. It appears that Mr. Doppler was right. Another sound can be heard in the distance, it is the sound of much commotion and jovial conversation.
Apparently there is a get together down the road, and these playing children’s parents are participating in all the binging involved. Who is watching the children? Right now it seems to be of little concern to those parents who are too busy fulfilling their own personal gratifications. Don’t they remember what happened to the little girl two years ago? That awful day, much like today, when the children were laughing and chasing each other about throughout the neighborhood while their parents inebriated themselves. A certain little girl must not have been paying attention when she was trying to avoid being taken hostage by the boys and a car coming around the corner captured her instead. From all appearances one would assume that she was fine because there were no visible signs of injury besides a few cuts and bruises, but an impact such as that can have devastating effects on such a young body. She seemed to be sleeping peacefully, a clever smirk on her face as though she was dreaming of the boy chasing her still, but there was no movement in her narrow breast. Her essence had escaped from her upon impact and dissipated into the atmosphere. Is this accurate though? Perhaps it didn’t dissipate at all and instead maintained itself in shape traveling along the threads of creation in between what is visible and what is not. Scientists of late often speak of small subatomic particles coming in and out of existence right before their very eyes. There is something nonsensical about one’s essence breaking apart and evaporating like a body of water in the hot sun. After all, shouldn’t this be the one thing that cannot be disintegrated into component parts? For how could there be any such parts to make up something like a soul? By the very definition of it, the soul should be constant and never less or more. It was quite some time before the parents could be located and notified about the condition of their child. The driver of the car had frantically come running out of her car to see the child’s lifeless body. She exclaimed, “She just came out of nowhere! I tried to stop, b-but she was right there. There was nothing I could do. Oh my…” at this point she trailed off into tears and broken sobbing, her heart full of sadness and anguish over such a terrible circumstance. Upon finding out about the incident, the parents were devastated, not only by what had happened, but by what they thought to be the driver’s apparent irresponsibility for the accident.
Yet responsibility seems misplaced in this circumstance because of a few facts. For one, the parents were not attending their child, for another their house was the one on the corner and they had allowed the hedges in their yard to grow to a point where visibility was considerably reduced. True the driver should have recognized this and slowed, but not all of the blame was hers alone. And here they are again doing the same thing, and the rest of the parents are allowing their children to do the same thing that that little girl was doing just two yeas ago. Maybe the human mind isn’t so different from that insect outside the window.
Rising up to look around the dim room, light peering in through the blinds provides subtle hints of objects scattered about. Nothing of real importance, just the essentials for comfortable living: a bed, a desk, a laundry basket, a chair, and various other insignificant items. The only things that hold any real value are the books stacked high along one wall of the room. Organized in a most meticulous fashion, they are categorized, alphabetized, and kept dust free and clean. But these cherished items are far from in peak condition. A certain affinity exists for worn down and well used types of readings; books that hold stories of their readers as well as what the author placed in eloquent words on the page. Worn bindings, torn pages, stains, folds, handwriting and other novelties create an image of previous perusers, their habits, and perhaps even their lifestyle. Even some discoloration of the covers and spines can show where volumes have been stored and whether they were kept solely for appearances or their literary worth.
An example of this is a group of works amidst the stacks that has a particular pattern on it. When all eight of the volumes are lined up, one next to the other, in ascending order there is the shadow of a cross along the spine of all the books much darker in color than the surrounding areas. This leads to the belief that these were placed next to a window and left for an extended period of time, where the glow of the sun had the opportunity to exert its bleaching power, diluting the dark maroon color of the books. Another conclusion could be drawn that these books were not used very often, and may have been kept by an individual who merely wanted to show that he had them. People like this enjoy the pomposity that comes from the envy of others who feel mentally inferior to them. Yet this could be a hasty judgment because, after all, many people do enjoy reading during the evening hours, which would leave the books in their position day in and day out. It is just these sorts of speculations that make owning such things a grand experience. One has the opportunity to create his own story about the previous owners, making them a villain or a hero, and sending them on many harrowing adventures. Many probably don’t think of it this way though. Most probably just see it as a worn book, ravaged by the sands of time. These people don’t understand the history of objects, and the meaning that they hold for some. Someone’s ragged old book was someone else’s most prized possession. Why can’t everyone understand these facts?
As the wind from outside gusts, the blinds are pushed far into the room cascading sunlight across the floor that jets its way towards the books. When the light finally shines on them, the one new printed book can be seen. Albert Camus’ “The Stranger” stands out brightly colored among the dull, faded, surrounding titles. This particular story needed to be an original copy, with no one else’s memories embedded within it, the starting point for the story of the book itself. Every reader needs at least one of these types of books. Though one can add to his previously owned book’s history, knowing the beginning in at least one can be quite comforting because he might not know where it will go from there. This particular novel makes for a good starting point because the author’s ideas come out so vividly within the story, and lend to the varying interpretation of different readers. Therefore, the story possibly affects the reader’s life in a way that they change the way they are living, maybe even who they are or what they believe. Without the essence of someone else in the book, absorption of the author’s words can become that much easier, at least for those readers who delve into this historical idea.
It is true that some can gleam the ideas from the book without the consideration of anyone who previously read the copy by ignoring the notes on the sides, the tear-stains, the folds on the page and the underlined sections. They pay no thought to any of these substantial features’ significance because these “memories” hold no bearing on their lives. Does this limit the reading experience? In some respects perhaps it does by not taking in another perspective as a possible interpretation, but on the other hand this may be an easier way to become totally immersed within the story, the background of the book might just cloud what the author is trying to say. Perhaps it only depends on the novel because sometimes a well-worn book will have a more interesting story than the writing itself. In the end, these are all trivial facts that only a small percentage probably thinks about. What really matters most is what the reader thinks, but how can those who don’t know about these little ideas make a decision if they are never exposed to them? For some it may be that they do not even know what they are missing out on because no one has lit the flame underneath their curiosity to let them know that there may be more that they are missing.
No comments:
Post a Comment