Jeremiah's School of Levitation

One thing I've kept somewhat hidden, until apparently now, is the tactile pleasure I get from rolling certain objects in my fingers and palms. I think I've blogged at some point about how I love to put pens in my mouth, especially the steely, smooth, cool tips of some pens.. I love the feel of heavy pens in my hand as I write random words and watch them form in clean-flowing ink. I write words like "goombay" and "waddlish", which make perfect sense while you are writing them. "Mooshka" and "bladdidip", "froshtish" and "gladdah" all have some sort of playful meaning. "You need to kick the mooshka out of that ball, if you ever expect to ascend to the next level of gladdah." They, by the way, also crack up the kids when I write them, and pronounce them as I write, and even do a little dance with my large head.

I also love those silver, metal Chinese balls that ding-a-ling when you roll them in your palms. They feel so good, and they are a balm for the skin and the imagination, all cold steel and perpetual surface. And, they ding! I put them to my cheeks, to my ears, and then I shake them, just so that I can hear that ding. There's nothing like it, really. I can't think of anything I can shake like that, and get a satisfying, muted, musical sound from, though, I also must admit, I like to shake spray paint cans so that I can hear that dry rattle from inside the can. Whoever invented the spray can rattler should get a star on the walk of fame. That rattle is so amazingly satisfying. I wish that other products would adopt that. I sometimes imagine that there is a rattle in my head and that, if I shake my head, it would rattle like a spray paint can, or ding like the metal Chinese balls. Maybe I can start a new fad. Have the unused, or college party ruined parts of my brain cleared out so that I can put a few dry beans in my skull, thereby providing a soundtrack to the otherwise innocuous action of nodding yes, or shaking my head no.

But, I digress, again.

Nothing, I should say, as we all read this on screen, is more satisfying than holding a book. Flipping pages, running your hands along the unevenly cut pages (my favorite books are those where no two consecutive pages have been cut to the same width, thereby giving a ragged appearance to the pages), holding its weight, smelling its paper. I sometimes pick up a book just to hold it. My palms spread across the cover and my fingers just jut into a random page, and I read a random line, for no reason except to spend a second with some thick paper and some collection of words. I could drown in a bookstore, which is why I sometimes avoid them. But, as Bob Marley said, "The stone that the builder refuses shall be the head cornerstone." So, resisting bookstores only dooms me to one day sneak behind the shelves and spread out my sleeping bag and go on ahead and live in the place. Bookstores around here have coffee shops complete with pastries, so, survivial is possible. It would be the perfect remedy for having too much blood in your coffee and donut-stream.

Touching things is like an addiction for me. I sometimes find myself stroking the fabric of the cube walls as I talk to a coworker, or stroking that part of my face betwixt nose and upper lip, or rolling bits of detritis between my middle finger and thumb. I used to put myself to sleep as a kid with that rollingmiddlefingerthumb thing.

My fantasy is to live in a bookstore. I have the perfect one all staked out, cool cafe and comfy chairs too. Even their bathrooms rock. On the side of your unique sandwich, they'll cut half an apple to look like a ladybug. Why go home?

and even do a little dance with my large head.

Would that be the "Flush Already" dance? Is it that versatile? (Sweet!)

Survival is possible in a bookstore. ~giggling over the mental picture of stepping over a sleeping bag in fiction~ They do complain though, when you bath in the cafe sink. But the utter genius of marrying coffee and books...Bloody brilliant if you ask me.

badoozer and I are both relentless booksmellers and good friends. We bonded at Powell's books in Portland, OR, you know. Now that we have descended on your blog be aware we bring liberal amounts of sarcasm.

Drowning in book stores - aah yes. The delight of just being there amongst all those recorded words. The smell of books, the feel of them. I was there with you.
There is a little used bookstore in Seattle I used to love going to, Twice Sold Tales. They had a bubble machine that blew bubbles on the sidewalk even at 4 am. They had futons and chairs and bean bags scattered between shelves and aisles and in sitting areas. I could spend hours there, reading and touching and stacking books to buy.

...and terribly sorry, Jeremiah...

or not...

I did indeed introduce the badoozer to YOUR blog... but I sincerely thought you'd be in for a real treat. She's hillarious! I wasn't banking on the stalking component though!

About the tactile thing... some people get that, to others it matters very little. Something has to be extremely "good to the touch" for me to even take notice.

Then again, maybe I'm just old.

Coffee, now THERE'S something I'm fussy about!

Mona: When that lottery check arrives, I will makeover my entire home to look like a bookstore. That's such a comforting image that I'm already smiling about it.

Subadoo: I smell books too. Smelling is the second cousin to tasting, you know. And, in light of that, I've probably eaten the equivalent of a dozen books in my day...

Emma: I once asked a friend if he was being sarcastic when he had replied to me, and he said "Oh, my. You'll never catch ME being sarcastic." Excellent line. Sarcast on--I can take it!

Maggie: I used to go to TSTales all the time--the exact one you're talking about! I once worked a block from there, in the newsstand. Maybe you know me! The world, it is small!

TG: I am the mad toucher. There is no store in town I've visited that doesn't have my fingerprints all over the place.