OBJECTS OF DESIRE

Listen to Jim: http://www.jimreedbooks.com/mp3/objectsofdesire.mp3 or read on… 

 

Be glad that I don’t tell you the story behind each and every Thing you select to take home from Reed Books/The Museum of Fond Memories. Be glad, because I’d hold you up for hours!

.

 

All the foundling books and artifacts in the shop have their own backgrounds, their own histories-—and stories could be told.

In order to save time for both of us, it is best I keep the back-stories to myself so that you can purchase a wonderful artifact and begin your journey with it, with a clear mind and a vivid imagination. That way, you can create your own story, your own genealogy, and stamp the object with your indelible personality.

This isn’t difficult. After all, the ephemera and books in my shop will never be as meaningful as the memories they evoke, the tales they force you to tell, the reflections they engender. Not only will you imbue your new-found treasure with your essence, you will also leave traces of your very DNA through the simple act of touching it. You will make your own story and carry it with that story’s subject till you are ready to end with a period and allow the next owner, the next heir, the honor of starting a new paragraph.

This is dynamic archaeology, folks. And a thousand years hence, when diggers find traces of the book or diary or collectible you own today, they will be able to determine once more that the things we hoard and cherish are the things that tell our stories best.

 

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And perhaps they will be able to revive us through that all-inclusive DNA that seeped into our objects of desire

 

© by Jim Reed 2011 A.D.

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

CHRISTMAS DREADED JOY

Listen to Jim: http://www.jimreedbooks.com/mp3/literaryvanitieshell.mp3 or read on…

The  Shopping Mall of the Literary Vanities is a one-of-a-kind destination point, at least today. Someday, it may be franchised and you’ll find them everywhere. Here at the Mall, you can stroll past storefront windows that display waxwork scenes of authors who are in the process of having what we call BOOK SIGNINGS. One window depicts Kurt Vonnegut puffing away and signing like crazy, as adoring fans are ignored and processed. Another window shows Rick Bragg kindly signing book after book for ‘Bama fans. Then, there are the windows of the Unknown Authors. Here, you’ll see one lonely writer after another sitting stiffly and staring ahead, pen poised, waiting for  attention from invisible throngs.

Naturally, in order to properly represent statistics, you’ll find about 98 lone-author displays for every two busily-successful authors. It’s a big mall.

This might as well be a Gary Larson cartoon more properly titled  The Shopping Mall of the Literary Vanities Hell that we writers often have nightmares about.

That was a dream. What follows is what happened today:

I’m driving into the parking lot of Little Professor, a book store in Homewood, Alabama, where, this very  Sunday High Noon, I’m attending a book signing.

Not just any book signing. My  book signing!

I’ve dusted off the last few copies of my title, Christmas Comes But Once a Day. Liz has decided it’s time I make myself available to the masses in order to sell off our “stock” before I add another handful of stories and publish a revised edition for next year.

So, here I am in the parking lot at Little Professor, about to spend two hours being The Author.

Why do I dread these events? Even more puzzling: why do I look forward to these events?

Any experienced author will tell you how wonderfully terrible and terribly wonderful book signings can be. Like many others, I’ve spent hours over the past decades, sitting in bookchain stores waiting for somebody—anybody—to buy my book and ask me to sign it, to no avail. Then, again, I’ve sat in stores where people have lined up to get my signature.

The fun part is having people ask.

The horrifying part is having nobody ask.

The even more horrifying part is never knowing in advance what kind of book signing event it’s going to be, till I’m already there, sitting nude at a table with a small sign over my head explaining what this geezer is doing in the middle of the store staring into space.

Today’s signing is pleasant, and I am relieved. A number of friends and strangers buy my book—as well as my writing book and my “Tweed Coat” book, and, better than that, some folks sit and talk with me and listen as I read a couple of Christmas tales to them. People can be so kind—thankfully.

I am relieved and grateful—and very glad that I don’t do this for a living. I’m a lot more secure in my old book shop, comforting all those long-dead authors who have been through many other book-signing hells…and I assume they, like me, are happier where they are than where they have been

 

(c) 2011 A.D. by Jim Reed

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

Porters Arehouse Open for Christmas Ghosts

Listen to Jim: http://www.jimreedbooks.com/mp3/PortersArehouse.mp3 or read on…

Driving in from a dreaded trip into the bowels of the ‘burbs is worth every moment, once I arrive in the Southside/Downtown world I inhabit.

It’s comforting to see the sights many suburbanites will never enjoy:

1. An enormous sign: PORTERS AREHOUSE. Only we living ghosts of Downtown would know that this is the abandoned establishment once known as Importers Warehouse, now weather-sheared of some of its former identity.

2. The California Fashion Mall, which is a story unto itself (listen to my long-ago comments about that): http://www.jimreedbooks.com/audio/christmas/1/track10.asx

 

3. The haunting memory of long sterile rows of neatly regimented books in lock-step passionless order at an emporium I saw a few months ago. Can’t wait to get back to Reed Books/The Museum of Fond Memories, my homage to the way books ought to be treated: since each book is its author personified, I’ve always assumed that few authors would like it if we lined them up and forced them to stand at attention under cold fluorescent lights, bereft of any of the comforts near which they wrote their stories—such as the blankies and favorite chairs and tasty snacks and window-views and neighborhood sounds that provided a solid pedestal for their work. My shop is arranged so as not to insult book or author or customer with regimentation. Joy is everywhere in this little world! The merry confusion of Reed Books is part of my gift to you.

4. Stopping by my 1906 home, then driving to the 1890 building housing Reed Books, is a ritual and a privilege. These buildings are the center of my little world, and I love it when you visit. Come see things you’ll never experience in the ‘burbs, take home a memory, a memory you can use as seedling for spreading the gospel of Old Things and the wonderful feelings they evoke in people. Drop by and I’ll show you a few. 

5. Since Christmas comes but once a day in my world, pick a day and come in. See what this season can be all about in a dreamworld more realistic than anything you’ll find Out There

Jim Reed

(c) 2011 A.D.

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

HOW TO AVOID TAKING ADVICE

Listen to Jim: http://www.jimreedbooks.com/mp3/AvoidTakingAdvice.mp3 or read on…

I’ve rubbed elbows with many wise and witty and even famous people in my span…I’ve had contact with even more wise and witty and famous folk via literature and media and public presentation.

You’d think that more than half a century of being exposed to the wisdoms and outrages of the renowned as well as the insignificant would make me a sage, a vizier, a Village Elder, one to whom you come to find a Better Way—or at least a Better Oblique View.

But, nay, even though the thoughts and comforts of far-superior people have crossed the threshhold of my consciousness as well as my conscience, very little seems to have adhered, not much of those wise and wonderful ideas have stuck.

This is mostly because I seem to have been born a Contrarian, a skeptic, a little professor who automatically examines each person’s reality and dismisses it as profound but inconclusive. Can’t help it. I’m just that way.

The good news is, I also inherently pick and choose the ideas and thoughts and wisdoms and witticisms that seem to fit my chaotic psychic makeup. This means that at times I am smart and alert and creative and helpful to those seeking help…while at other times I just have goofy ideas that entertain me but affect almost no-one else.

So, if you want to be in the presence of an active and entertaining mind, you have to approach me when I’m in the right place, cosmically. Sometimes you’ll run into a wise-cracking, ebullient curmudgeon, while at other times you’ll find yourself at the feet of the Master. I can’t tell you how to predict what you’ll encounter, but I can guarantee that if you approach me nonjudgementally and are open to a special experience, you just might come away with something nice to ponder. At the very least, you’ll have heard something funny or outrageous or off-center. And even that will bring you one step closer to mending the Universe until it fits you  just fine.

It would be a World more special if each of us would simply enjoy the moment and avoid trying to improve anybody but ourselves. Look upon it as entertainment—people are just who they are, and we would do well to leave them be. We just have to be cautious and give the angry and the violent and the bigoted a wide berth.

There are so many entertaining people to know that, once you learn to do this, you’ll never miss the disturbed ones

(c) 2011 A.D. by Jim Reed

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

BEWARE THE BOOKIE MAN!

Listen to Jim: http://www.jimreedbooks.com/mp3/bookieman.mp3 or read on…

BEWARE THE BOOKIE MAN!

 

We fellow People of the Words are a breed lying fallow at the edge of an unreasoning society, a truncated society that values but little the World of Thought, the World of Reflection, the World of  Thinking-Things-Out-Before-Acting.

 

Wouldn’t you say about three to four per cent of the barely educable planet actually cherishes the idea of Seeing Beyond dogma and cast-iron rules and comfortable habit and imprisoning ritual? I don’t meet many folks in this category, but I recognize them instantly and appreciate them excessively.

 

Not that I don’t enjoy the other ninety-six per cent of humanity, but it’s awfully difficult to conduct a discussion of just about anything beyond what they’ve been instructed to think by tradition, media, wily Fox, artful politician, manipulative corporate power. By now, I know all their rants by heart, since they are repeatedly injected into the ethos and comfortably worn like an old jacket or, in some cases, a scratchy burlap shirt.

 

I don’t mind their knowing only what they know and nothing else—perhaps that’s what they are capable of. But I do mind it when they don’t care to listen to my rants as carefully as I listen to theirs. As every teen-ager since time began says, “It’s just not fair!”

 

Anyhow, those of us comprising the tiny palmful of Think-Beyonders must sally forth and continue to keep a few fresh thoughts and ideas alive, hoping that a generation or two beyond will adopt some of them and make them blossom.

 

It is for this reason that many of us writers write, even when we’re not certain there are any readers at all. We keep plying our trade because to give up and abandon it would be insulting not only to our Muse, but to the Hopeful Universe at large.

 

It is why the book shop/Museum of Fond Memories clings and endures and thrives. It has to. We four per cent need something to read, something to think, something to contemplate—even if it doesn’t fit, isn’t our size, won’t quite cling to the culture.

 

We know we have a purpose, we just don’t know what it is. But we do know the effort is worthwhile

 

© Jim Reed 2011 A.D.

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

THE TWO-DOLLAR BOOKSCAPADE

Listen to Jim: http://www.jimreedbooks.com/mp3/bookscapade.mp3 or read on…

My long-ago friend Suzy used to chat a lot, but she would suddenly realize the self-centeredness of it all and exclaim, “But enough about me…how’s my hair?”

You had to have been there.

Anyhow, it’s a lot more fun to talk about my customers and bookish acquaintances than to talk about myself—although, don’t get me started ’cause I can do that, too.

I could—and should—do a column about each of the people who lighten my door, but it would take thousands of columns and it’s unlikely I’ll live to be 145.

I guess, though, that I could write about these folks as if I might live to be 145. Here goes:

The two-dollar-book woman who arrives a couple of times a month just at closing time, carefully and slowly selects a stack of volumes from the $2-each stand outside the shop. She always makes me late getting home, but I unblinkingly appreciate the fact that I’m making any money at all in this delightful dreambusiness, so I pause to enjoy her presence.

The two-dollar-book woman walks very slowly and somewhat painfully, sometimes with a cane, but she never selects the lightest books to make her journey smoother. She’ll pick a gigantic dictionary, a heavy stack of first-edition novels, just about anything that perks her up. Then, clumsily, never asking for help, she struggles to pull ajar the chiming door and manipulate her cane and armsful of books to my counter. She pays from a bank envelope full of cash, grunts to hold the double-bagged purchases, and wends her way out and into whatever time zone she occupies at night. 

I don’t know anything about this customer except by Watson/Holmes deduction, and I hesitate to describe her physical appearance or relate additional observations because it might imbed a misleading image of her class/age/race into your mind and divert your attention. All I really want to know, all I really want you to know,  is that she is as important to my daily shoprunning as the customer who just purchased an old copy of Moby-Dick or a signed first edition by William Faulkner or a beat-up copy of Archie Comics.

There’s something to learn from each and every person who dares enter my Museum of Fond Memories, and these persons range from unreconstructed redneck literati to uninformed beginners to overeducated nonstop talkers to awed tourists to kids standing wide-eyed taking in the overload of visual information on the floor, shelves, walls, ceilings to frantic parents trying to find a copy of the assigned book-report volume their kids must have by tonight, to casual gazers who just want to enjoy the time machine and remain as long as I’ll allow them. And more.

Now and then, if it’s ok with you, I’ll talk about other customers and characters, but don’t worry—I won’t out you, I’ll just edify you should you happen to sneak into one of the columns. I’m not looking for Bad Customer, I’m just looking for more adventure—the adventure that comes from looking closely and finding the bookie heart in each and every literatureland explorer

(c) 2011 A.D. by Jim Reed

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

STRAIGHT ON TILL THATAWAY

Listen to Jim: http://www.jimreedbooks.com/mp3/thataway.mp3 or read on…

Making a living in the previously-loved-book trade is not what you think.

For instance, many times over, job applicants, young and old, say,

1. ”Gee, I’d love to work here. You get to sit in an old book store and read all day and talk with Book People.”

or

2. “Are you hiring?” as if one could just walk right in and take over my world and know what’s what and how to do it, no qualifications required.

or

3. “I’d like to open a book store when I retire,” as if operating a shop is something you can immediately succeed at and still take your afternoon nap and your extended vacation, while keeping up with rent and overhead.

or

A thousandfold other comments and asides that indicate shoprunning looks like the easiest thing in the world.

You might find taking a book excursion with me to be rather eye opening, somewhat scary at times; you might find it to be doggone hard work, too.

This afternoon, I head 30 miles to the county line to follow up on a phone call. Woman says she has 60 boxes of good books ready to sell reasonably if I’ll just come and go through them.

The journey is half the fun, since I get to see parts of the region not normally imagined by us city dwellers:

The skeletal structure of a ferris wheel rims the horizon, a bowling alley named SUPER BOWL whizzes past—good name for a bowling alley, the haunted ghost-filled windows of a dozen abandoned general stores sucked dry of life by chain inconvenience facilities,  double-wide homes leaning in the breeze, clothes lines filled with mentionables better left unmentioned, a Sunday-closed bar-b-q place bracing itself for Monday breakfast gorgers…and so on. It’s a grand tour of who we were, who we don’t want to be, who we might have been but for the grace of. And it’s as  humbling as lying in a field on a clear night and allowing the stars to put us in our minuscule celestial dunce corners.

I arrive at the HOT DOG HOT ROD RESTAURANT (“Bikers Welcome”), or what may be what’s left of it, where several family members sit out front and regard the citified bookdealer who dares beam himself into their midst. The woman who called tells me to follow her car down a dirt road to where the books are stored, and I embark into the unknown just knowing I’m going to have an adventure. The rolling hills seem to be shards of strip mining land, what with the patchy greenery and the green-tinted pond spread about. A large open-air barn houses pieces of our culture—thousands of record albums from Al Jolson to Charlie Pride, thousands of books, surprisingly clean, dry and well-kept in boxes. I try to ignore the temptation of looking at other artifacts worth obtaining and just concentrate on the books, and the effort does pay off. I select a hundred titles ranging from Plato to Grizzard, stuff that will replenish my stock of good, reasonably-priced reading material.

The woman is happy with the money, her grown kids are happy that somebody wants these books, the titles of which they can barely read. One large son packs my car for me, and they all  hop into vehicles to lead me back to the highway on the narrow path.

The woman repeatedly reports that she’s glad somebody wants the books, since her husband has commanded her to get rid of them or he’ll take them to a landfill. She somehow knows, as I do , that throwing a book away is a sin—even if her definition of sin isn’t always the same as mine.

I feel good about the Sunday afternoon jaunt and can’t wait to make several other trips tomorrow in my quest to locate the Holy Grail piece by piece and day by day, in this sacred profession called bookdealing/bookloving/bookcollecting/bookreading/bookwriting

(c) 2011 A.D. by Jim Reed

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

STICKY POCKETS

Listen to Jim: http://www.jimreedbooks.com/mp3/stickypockets.mp3 or read on…

STICKY POCKETS

Ideas and thoughts and meaningless rambles tend to find themselves snatched from midair by my hands, then downloaded onto sticky notes (usually on the steering column as I’m meandering along the blue roadways) and eventually either into my sticky note drawer or my pocket.

If I dig into my pocket right now, here’s what I come up with, all hastily and shakily written on yellow paper bits:

1. Spam inbox headline number one: YOU’RE PAYING $377.96 MORE THAN YOU SHOULD. An ineffectual message if ever there was one, since it does not induce me to open the email–why should I, when there is nothing more to learn? For instance, I agree: I’M PAYING $377.96 MORE THAN I SHOULD. Doesn’t matter where the money is going, I know that it’s wasted money and I also know that I wish I didn’t have to pay it.

2. Spam inbox headline number two: ELIMINATE ROLLS AND BRA WIRES. Another messsage complete in and of itself. It simply instructs me to ELIMINATE MY ROLLS AND BRA WIRES. That means I’ve got to reduce that cellulite floppy Pillsbury Doughboy belly of mine, and I certainly may or may not get around to doing that someday. I will look around to see whether there are any bra wires lying about, though I’m not sure what they look like. If I ever find and eliminate some you’ll be the first to know.

3. Spam inbox headline number three: GET SEXIEST LEGS EVER. Believe me, if I ever decide to get some sexy legs, I’ll obey the order. First I have to figure out whether they’re talking about replacing or upgrading my legs, or whether I’m supposed to find somebody with sexy legs and try to get them. Also, can they remain attached to a sexy body? What are the rules?

4. Spam inbox headline number four: STORE EVERYTHING IN A STEEL BUILDING. Do I have to? And does that mean everything, like everything in the Universe? Or does it mean just the stuff that’s lying around? And which steel building do they want me to use? Decisions, decisions.

and finally,

5. Spam inbox headline number five: FINALLY SMOKE ANYWHERE YOU WANT LEGALLY. You mean I can finally do that? You mean it’s finally legal to smoke anywhere? Where were you 30 years ago when I still smoked? And what good does this message do me now? I would not term this as successful target marketing.

I think I’ll leave my sticky notes home someday, just to see if I can act upon the world rather than have its billionfold messages act upon me

(c) 2011 A.D. by Jim Reed

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

THE 82,000 MPH MESSAGE

Listen to Jim: http://www.jimreedbooks.com/mp3/82000mph.mp3 or read on…

The 82,000 mph Message

 

What does a message in a bottle have in common with a spacecraft speeding along at 82,000 miles per hour?

 

Funny you should ask. Actually, it really would be funny if you asked, since I never expect anybody to make such an inquiry in my lifetime.

 

So, since I’m doing all the asking today, I might as well do the answering, too.

 

My muse is a spaceship named Pioneer 10, and within this racing bit of machinery lies one tiny hope for our species—the hope that we will prevail (preferably in peace and prosperity) long enough to dive into deep space and retrieve this runaway child of Earth.

 

Way back in 1972 (or, as we geezers say, day before yesterday), a scientist named Carl Sagan, and his buddy, Frank Drake, learned that NASA was about to launch a missile to the stars, a missile that will be gone so long and going so fast, that it won’t reach a giant sun called Aldebaran for about two million years. But it was going to make the trip, anyhow! That’s the way visionary poets and scientists and hobbits think—two million years is nothing when you’re about to embark on an adventure!

 

Anyhow, the scientists asked NASA whether they could place a message on the Pioneer 10 craft—you know, just in case somebody or something intercepts and boards the vessel during its great visit outside our Solar System. Wouldn’t we want the interceptors to know who we are and where we are and whether we are invaders or explorers?

 

NASA agreed, and three weeks later, a gold aluminum anodized plaque with a message was installed on the space ship, and away it went!

 

Nearly forty years have passed, and Pioneer 10 is still travelling toward Aldebaran, even though it stopped sending us messages a few years back (even million-dollar batteries have shelf life).

 

I often think about Pioneer 10 and all that it means to me and my fellow earthlings, especially my fellow writers.

 

Placing a message in a bottle and casting it into unknown waters is the same as loading up a time capsule and burying it deep within a cornerstone, the same as wrapping a diary in a red clay clump and hiding it in an overgrowth of kudzu, the same as writing “Kilroy was here” on an urban wall, the same as pressing “enter” and sending a blast/blog/tweet/text/manuscript into parts unknown.

 

All us senders of messages just want to communicate that we were here, we once mattered, we were good to each other; we hope our readers will fare well and never forget the importance of messaging our lives to one another, never forget that the real people of the world are the little folks like us, the folks who don’t crave power, don’t want to harm, don’t wish to exploit…we’re just the people who matter, and we want to send hopeful messages to future generations and species who are searching for hope and meaning in their alien or alienated existences.

 

So, my muse, the small spacecraft/bottle called Pioneer 10, keeps sailing the interstellar seas. Someday, it will be intercepted and interpreted. The interceptors might be strange beings…or, I suspect, they might be us, the scientifically advanced us who found a way, one million years hence, to race into the vast distances and retrieve our beloved Rosetta Stone, our Grail, then re-read it and take heart in the fact that we once had great notions and powerful hope and unfettered love that we were willing to share through the eons with anyone open to the idea

 

© 2011 A.D. by Jim Reed

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

A CONVERGENCE OF HAPPENSTANCES

 
A CONVERGENCE OF HAPPENSTANCES
 
The Accidental Universe inhabited by yours truly is a constant source of laughter and tears—then, more laughter.
 
Where else but here would you find such an eclectic and confusing array of philosophies and causes and anti-causes, such a head-spinning conglomeration of convoluted ideas and baseless opinions combined with precious moments of wisdom that are later twisted into their opposites by contrarians and cynics and pundits?
 
It’s a funny cosmos, a funny Earth, a funny melting pot of us suspiring beings who are just off-kilter enough to believe we are special or superior to everything and everybody else.
 
We are the Dreaming Animal, the being who believes that just because you feel something strongly, it must be true, it must exist, it must be the Only Way.
 
That’s what makes us funny. Flip a celestial coin and you are suddenly born an unreconstructed hippie in post-beat San Francisco…flip again and you incarnate as a peasant on a desert island…flip once more and you are who you are right now, right here.
 
Is the Universe a game played with loaded dice? And why do I, the Dreaming Animal, even conjure up such a notion, when I could be using my time more productively watching zombie housewife television or mindlessly thumbing texted messages to imaginary friends or twiddling my mantra in a secluded cave?
 
Send the answers to these and other questions to me, the post-Andy Rooney embodiment of benevolent geezerhood, who just wants to observe the enlightenment in your eye as you peruse the contents of my Museum of Fond Memories and the wonderful array of overlapping time machine artifacts it displays for the pleasure of all Dreaming Animals who wander in
 
(c) 2011 A.D. by Jim Reed