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Photo by Gail Harvey, no reproduction without permission
Santa Cruz Installing certain postcard images on the corkboard above my writing desk is an important ritual, second only to arranging beloved books according to a magical system that only their owner understands. While the Arthur Millers must be clustered and the Galloways grouped, not for me the tyranny of the strictly alphabetical. My history as a bookseller still finds me re-shelving disordered volumes in stores where I am now a customer, but in my private sanctuary, there's another order at work. So too with the intimate arrangement of pinned-up images, placed with care and secret knowledge of their inspirational powers. No writing chamber is complete without a photo of the coast of California at Santa Cruz, acquired on a poignant trip west. It must be placed next to another image that in stark black and white contrast, reminds me of the joys of story and of the power of time to heal and transform--and strengthen.
Organizing The Shelf takes time and promotes reflection. The Shelf is a now-rickety once-gift from an old friend. I never expect it to survive a move but strangely, so far, it has survived a few. It is the esteemed home of my poetry collection, which to my surprise makes up a sizeable portion of my personal library, and charts both literary influences [and discoveries] and the creative accomplishments of friends. The shelves are positioned in such a way that plays and large-format trade paperback bios can happily co-exist, their spines properly erect. In the act of sorting these various volumes, I have been reminded of a more youthful habit, that of using TTC streetcar transfers as bookmarks. Like pressed flowers of inscrutable sentimental value, I regard these yellowed scraps of urban transit with time-blanked tenderness. A vague stirring of remembrance arises, unfettered by painful details of the actual ride, no precise recall of a delay or disturbance typical of city transport. I know only that I was reading my way through the streets, likely oblivious to the noise and chaos and cares of the day, carried off by some author, living or dead, who cared enough about life to put pen to paper.
Uncrating beloved books and sorting through photographic testimonials of trips taken and inspired hours is magical, a potent meditative act. There were no geese crying out overhead in Santa Cruz, but on this glorious rainy Springtime afternoon, the feeling is the same: gratitude (and some amazement] that The Shelf endures.
Listening to: Edith Piaf
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