Wednesday, 22 August 2007

private plane

I wish I had a private plane. Actually, I think I'd rather have a helicopter gunship. They seem like they're easier to take off and land, what with not needing a runway and all. Obviously I'd need a pilot, a pilot who was on call all hours of the day and night. But he'd be a total A-Team fan, and would LOVE being a chopper pilot. It really would be his life. It would get tricky sometimes, convincing him that he really didn't have to “take out” the neighbours from down the street who would invariably complain about the noise. But that's the only time the guns would be of concern. And he'd be easily calmed down with a few soft words from Lionel Ritchie. Recorded, of course. I might one day be able to afford a helicopter gunship, but I don't think I'll ever have the money to afford Lionel Ritchie.


He pretends he has all the answers. He holds these to his chest, but when she peeks up close, she sees that he has only gathered air in the folds of his garments. She understands that he has to feel important, that his way of engaging with the world is by setting himself apart from it, looking down on all its marvels. But at the same time, she can't bring herself to swallow what he says, knowing it's based on a fallacy. He thinks she is walking away because she is somehow jealous of him, of his world, and she lets him believe that. But she is walking away because biting her tongue is beginning to really affect her vocabulary, and that is something she can't allow.

sorry somehow

I put cress seeds on your carpet while you were away. And then I watered your carpet. I thought it would be funny. And it was, for a bit. But you get back tomorrow and somehow, I don't think you'll get the joke. Sorry.

standing by the sea

Once, there was someone who loved you enough to wait for your return. They stood on the beach and hoped the waves would somehow carry you back. There were letters. You wrote your life into folds of paper, left the imprint of promises where they'd be seen in the half-light of a morning room. But you took so long. And, tired of waiting, the one who loved you most let you drift from their heart, replaced you with constancy and the spoken word.

Tales from the Library: rekindling

Even though I work in a Library, I haven't really had much chance to actually deal with books of late. It all seems to be computers and DVDs and reader's accounts. And then posters and leaflets and this survey or that survey. I've only just figured this out, wondering why I've had so many negative feelings about it recently. I miss alphabetising entire sections. I miss getting angry at the crappy covers of Ken Follett books. I miss knowing which books are where, and being able to take a reader straight to the title they want. I seem to have lost that communion lately, which makes me sad. I don't get the chance to sneakily read the cover blurbs anymore. I can't properly engage with people when they ask for recommendations. I feel like I work in an office, but at the same time, I feel totally out of my depth in that world of invoices and paperwork. (Although I admit I do have an unhealthy obsession with post-it notes.)

Tomorrow, I'm going to make a point of rekindling my love affair with the shelves. I'm going to pull out Tony Parsons and Murakami and even Josephine Cox. I will stand them up for all to see, and let them dance on the shelves together, urging someone to take them home and into their lives. I'm going to make a standing collage of Mills & Boon lovelies – have the one where the sheik falls for the businesswoman teeter next to the one where the doctor takes on the innocent pregnant gal and her bun, and let the one where the millionaire steals the heart of his secretary-who-he-pays-to-pretend-to-be-his-wife nestle up close against the one where the rocket scientist woos the sexy but workaholic lady vet. (I made that last one up, but it probably does exist.)

I need to get back what I used to love about my job. And that means not getting bogged down with new responsibilities, but finding a way to balance what has to be done with what I want to do. And it starts amongst the pink-covered tales of romance. Where the names of the authors – B.J. Daniels, Candance Camp - never cease to make me smile. What better place to rediscover my true love.