From a tender age, the arrows were already pointing. Library Day. “Library Day! Oh YEA! Library Day!” Hours spent walking along the aisles, touching all the spines. Pulling books out, pushing them back in. Understanding the Dewey Decimal System. Using stools to reach up high. Going through sets of Joan Walsh Anglund. Noting book size, book girth, book smell. Miss Nelson is Missing led to sneaky pre-teen camp outs on the carpeted floor, just to read Wifey. Which was better than looking at copies of Playgirl they found on a dumpster dive and hid in their fort.
It happened over and over. More years. More signs. More arrows pointing there. New days. New yellow bricks on the road. There was never anything more freeing than paper and ink. And all the thoughts in paper and ink. But after mountain after mountain and all those storms, that summit seems so close. Though everything changed. Or appears that way. What’s real on this side and real on that side feels jumbled now. And the summit that appeared after Library Day and got closer and closer…well, no one can see how close it is now. Maybe tomorrow.
How does one pick up and go the other way after 30 years on the same road following all those arrows?
And what does all of that mean?
And why now? When it’s so close?
When all the answers showed up? When you can’t give up, even if you can’t see where you’re going anymore. Because it’s better than going the other way. Maybe. I mean, all you’d be doing is looking back and end up falling off a cliff.
If you weren’t supposed to be HERE, why’d they all show you the way HERE for so long? What do they expect you to do now? Angels don’t laugh at you, and angels don’t lie.
"not quite quiet" drawing by the amazing talented crafty lady named Clare Sabatini, one of my pdx homies....thx! xxx
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