Written Thursday, 3/8/12.
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[ Part 1 ]
I want to tell you about Ginsberg, and Thoreau, and Dickinson (whose name I always misspell), and Billy Collins most of all – how I came to love poetry again. But I first must tell you about how it all started. It all started on Tuesday the sixth. Jane posted on Billy Collins, and I was blindsided with the hunger to read his poetry. Billy Collins – the poet whose words I fell in love with over YouTube, the poet whom my friend introduced me to. It’s been a while since I last “read his work,” as they say. And I am surprised that, ten minutes later, I have three of his anthologies open on three separate tabs, me giddily reading along, skipping from tab to tab like the frenetic leaping of children on a summer lawn. I cannot quench the desire to laugh – the mad and uncontrollable bubbling of unadulterated glee – and so I laugh in silence, into my scarf, my chest shaking. Once, I giggled so hard that I was terrified my boss and co-worker would hear. But no sound came forth, and I was glad.
During lunch, I strode, no nonsense, into North Beach. What a different place, I reflect, passing by the Scientology church. How it’s changed, I think, seeing empty storefronts. (There used to be a barber here. He smiled to me once, friendly-like, as he swung out tunes from his saxophone. Or was it his trumpet?) But maybe they’ll be back, I console myself, as these things sometimes do. There’s the Zoetrope. And the plaque bearing Francis Ford Coppola’s name – along with someone else’s but I’ve shamefully forgotten who. There’s the Condor – whatever that is – and an old woman. And two men who walk by, their coats and glasses glowing with the warmth of another time. I think about Ginsberg and the Beats – Beatniks, I hear you correct; I know – and how I can hardly believe that I am here, in 2012, walking in the shadow of the crazy ‘50s.
There’s a hush like the quiet of a cathedral as I step into the bookstore. City Lights – it’s been a while. But I am delighted to be back. Awkwardly, I smile hello to the cashier, and step around him as he helps a lost customer. I don’t need his help. I know exactly what I want. Up the stairs I go, the wood creaking like a ship, and I arrive, now slightly embarrassed because I see that I’m not alone up here. Two readers, reclining in chairs, look up at me. One woman smiles, but I barely return the greeting. No photographs today, I think as I lay my finger on Horoscopes for the Dead. But I decide again, and choose The Art of Drowning instead. And I return below with it in tow, hoping, wishing, for a quiet moment where I can whip out my point & shoot, and click. But there aren’t. The store is busy today, and I find people everywhere I turn. Just shoot anyway, I reason, it’s a famous place, after all. The guys must get it all the time from tourists. But I cannot muster the courage to do so. Maybe it’s the inner Frenchie in me – the woman who wants to be cool – or my pride, who thinks it a grave offense that I do anything tacky.
I pay for the book, and leave. But not without snapping a rather desperate, a rather pitiful photograph with my black-shod feet next to some quote by Ferlinghetti that, I later realized, doesn’t really make sense. Oh well, I breathe, walking back to work, to grey cubicle, to the heavily stained carpet. I have Billy Collins in my bag, and maybe there’ll be a next time, when I won’t be so shy – when I will actually stand with feet firmly planted, a smile on my face as I look up, aim, and shoot.
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I missed this week’s “installment” for Just Write, but I thought to post this all the same. I’ll be on time next week, I promise.
nice choice! The Art of Drowning was my first Billy Collins. So candid and true.
Cool, The Art of Drowning is my first Billy Collins book too! So happy to finally have his stuff sitting on my shelf, hehe.
I’m glad you posted it, it was great to read :)
Aww, thanks Hila!