I've always loved and felt at home in libraries, ever since I used to hide out in them to escape the terror of middle/high school in Hillsboro, Oregon and other lovely places where I got to grow up. What kind of world would we have if there were no public libraries? (Well, there would still be bookstores, which are even better in some ways, but they aren't free.) I always loved the quote from Jorge Luis Borges etched in the stone vestibule of the magnificent Central Library in downtown Portland:
"I have always imagined heaven to be a kind of library."
I know exactly what he means. An endless library, like a labyrinth of books and shelves and floors without limit, that never closes, and that contains every book, zine, magazine, newspaper, and publication ever written by anyone ever anywhere. I used to read voraciously, and nothing pleased me more than spending hours with a big glass of iced tea and maybe some cheese and crackers reading inside by candlelight, or outside by sunlight, feeding my head, growing wiser as I absorbed the knowledge and experience and imagination of other people, places, and things.
Lately, after losing my love of literature and reading to various other worldy pursuits and difficulties that diverted my attention elsewhere, I'm regaining my love of reading. Here are a few things I'm currently reading:
THE HYPOCRISY OF DISCO, by Clane Hayward. A memoir of her hardscrabble hippie childhood and how she broke out of it and rebelled by joining the mainstream that had always been denied her by her hardcore macrobiotic hippiedippy mom. I've been looking on it as inspiration for the memoir my cousin and I are writing (which is coming along nicely now). My first impression was that the writing (I don't know if Clane had a ghostwriter or not, I'm guessing no) was adequate, workmanlike, but struck me as one draft short of a final draft, and could be improved in terms of grammar, punctuation, and the general arrangement and quality of the writing. But since I've read more of it I've come upon some passages of beauty and warmed up to her bare-bones style. I've always enjoyed memoirs and autobiography.
THE ANCIENT SECRET OF THE FLOWER OF LIFE, VOL. 2, by Drunvalo Melchizedek. I don't have volume one, so I'm probably starting at the wrong end of the pool, but this was loaned to me and it's the sort of arcane, mystical text treating of paranormal matters past and present, hard to find I'm told. The theory goes that there is a sort of basic geometric shape, The Flower of Life, which is reflected in everything from celestial bodies to human bodies to intangibles like human consciousness to the Ancient Pyramids of Egypt. I definitely have a certain predisposition for mysticism and this book is feeding it. Lots of fun if you're the type of person who likes watching TV shows about UFOs, "unexplained mysteries," crop circles, Ripley's Believe It or Not, et. al. Seek it out and unlock its secrets!
BRIDESHEAD REVISITED, by Evelyn Waugh. I know, you know. But I'm almost finished with it now. I've found it immensely enjoyable reading and would class it as high literature. But it's too bad Waugh wrote at a time when he had to avoid direct mention of the fact that Sebastian was gay, and that's why I remain defiant in my passion for the film version which came out last year, with un-closeted Sebastian played by beautiful actor Ben Whishaw.
AUDTION, by Barbara Walters. An avoirdupois memoir by the queen of sappy TV interviews and elderly View co-hostess. It'll be a guilty pleasure, when I actually start reading it. It's a few down from the top in the stack right now. I laughed when I heard my Cousin talk about how Barbara uses Elisabeth Hasselbeck as her puppet to voice the conservative views that Barbara herself doesn't want to spout on The View, since she doesn't want to come across as the old person baffled by the progressive state of modern culture that she is. But hey, beneath all that hairspray and makeup beats a heart of solid brass.
