great spaces :: the library

it seems like people haven't really discovered all of the best spots in our new library yet (ok, it did only open on monday). that means that i have this long, beautiful table down at the end all to myself. right next to the outlet. with quasi-employee rights to make a pot of coffee (i'm here a lot, so i feel like one of the family), i can settle in to do a little writing and research on a couple of articles. the new library is in an old building - first it was a school, then it was the city hall and the library itself even used to be here. and now, after a major refurbishment, it's back again. and although i didn't know it in these surroundings before, i'll hazard a guess that it's better than ever. it's light, bright, fresh and there's not a boring chair in the house.

there's nothing like a really great bookstore

london's daunt books in marylebone oozes with atmosphere. it's quiet and was cool on an otherwise sweltering london day. i only had about 10 minutes to pop in on my way back from lunch with the wonderful beth and kristen (where yes, i made them build lego). there are tables heaped with inspiration for what to read, beautiful papers to select and take home, gorgeous old wooden floors interspersed with tiles, inviting chairs and an enormous curved window. i would love to have spent the rest of my afternoon there. but alas, i didn't. instead, i grabbed, without thinking too much, a few books from the delectable displays, feeling a bit like i was choosing macaroons in a fancy bakery. vasily grossman's an armenian sketchbook, audur ava olafsdottir's butterflies in november and one mistake, a pretentious crime novel called don't point that thing at me by kiril bonfiglioli, which i selected due to an attractive cover and an endorsement on said cover by none other than stephen fry (a mistake i made previously when i bought hugh laurie's atrocious attempt at a novel, but somehow conveniently forgot in the heat of the moment in daunt). the bonfiglioli was an utter waste of time, but i'm 80 pages into the grossman and savoring every word. the icelandic novel waits patiently beside my night table, still full of that mysterious possibility that all books you haven't yet read possess.

i miss bookstores. most of my books these days come from the library (which is awesome, but i do feel guilty writing in their books) or from amazon (mostly work-related), but there is still nothing like browsing a bookstore, especially one as charming as daunt, which i'd oddly never visited before on all my trips to london. it had a library-like hush and atmosphere that i breathed in during the few minutes i was there. the clerk behind the counter, with wrinkled shirt and ruffled hair, looked as if he'd just roused himself from a book to wander over to wait on me. he placed my purchases into a reusable cloth bag (not the green one, i didn't manage spend that much in 10 minutes) and i regretfully went on down the street. we just don't have any bookstores like that in my part of denmark (there are a couple still in copenhagen that fit the description, but i visit them far too seldom) and i miss them. we can do a lot on the internet these days, but there really is nothing like visiting a really great little bookstore.

a sense of place: march 1

cold. still. quiet.
silence broken only by the squawk of a pheasant in the distance,
the song of small birds spreading the word about the seeds i just put out.

grey. hushed. crisp.
black outlines of branches
against a sky encompassing the range of grey tones.
even grey can be beautiful.
in the crisp cold silence.

a new month.
a step closer to spring.
and a faint scent of spring in the air.
hello march, what took you so long?

tropical backwaters

the setting: slightly seedy bar on an out-of-the-way tropical island in what might as well be the south pacific.

the characters:  one brit, heavily tattooed, wiry, small, late 40s, early 50s; another brit, early 60s, or perhaps a bit older, grey hair that has the unreal, unmoving look of a toupee, missing a couple of key teeth in the front; a balding aussie with reading glasses and a severe case of the shakes, might be only late 50s, but could pass for late 60s; heavily-tattooed and pierced, mid-50s american, trying to hold onto youth with long, thinning, grey pony-tail and biker-style leather hat. it’s 11 a.m., but cold, squat, dark-bottled san miguels, glistening with sweat in the heat and humidity, stand before them.

what are they doing here? their conversation is largely about how much tickets cost now to get to the out-of-the-way island. it’s clear they’ve been coming for years. they talk about harrowing landings and take-offs on a nearly-too-short landing strip that starts in the water and ends in a volcanic outcropping that might as well be a mountain. they talk of hong kong, macau, melbourne and manila.

the younger brit who has just arrived has a two-day-old copy of the sun with him. he proceeds to engage in a conversation about how the muslims are taking over the UK...the newspaper has a story of a council that is hesitating to put up their christmas decorations because of the possibility of offending muslims in the community.

i find myself wondering what they’re doing there. what brings them back to this backwater place, where they clearly meet one another again and again? the bartenders know them--setting out their beers without them even asking. people passing by know them. some of the local girls know them. perhaps it’s the girls that bring them back. they’re talking about meeting in melbourne in february. there’s no hint of their business. but i find myself musing on it...small times arms dealers? drugs? whatever it is, it seems small time, more than a bit seedy, insignificant in the scheme of things...something that takes place in a tropical backwater such as this all the time...