I almost got locked inside of the bookstore tonight.
I was in the back, among the literary criticism and poetry, lost in this great collection by McSweeney’s of all sorts of new poems I’d never read. The stuff was hitting me down in my bellows in that certain way that gritty literature sometimes does when it finds you in the right place.
Then I heard the guy on duty yanking the chain-link guard across the big plate-glass door in front. Somehow I’d been lost in Neverland and time had worked its slight of hand. As fun as a night in an independent bookstore would probably be for me (honestly), I ducked out.
But on the way home I looked at the sun hitting the manicured grass and hedges that I pass every day …. and I got to thinking about “rabbit holes” … and how much I hope I get to have a lifetime full of them.
You know rabbit holes, I’m sure you do.
In the bookstore, I had pulled out a pen and a paper and started down into one – writing down titles by Wallace Stegner, which in turn led me to William Styron … simply because their initials are the same and Styron happened to be prominently displayed on the next shelf down. But also because a good friend, who’s judgment I really value, had recommended Styron months ago. Right next to that Styron book was the McSweeney’s collection.
Three rabbit holes opened up right that moment, which will probably multiply another nine times over once I go to order the books on Amazon … “Other shoppers who bought this book also purchased” … and then off you go. And that’s not even getting into the scores of references within each book to each author’s contemporaries and friends.
I’m particularly susceptible to those rabbit holes of the literary variety. But there’s also music, of course.
In the book store, I wrote down the name of the documentary about the making of The National’s new album, “Boxer.” I also wrote a note to myself to get some music by The Swell Season. From there, I inked the name of some guy named Jason Collette … purely because I liked the description of his sound that one of the workers at this wonderful bookstore had so lovingly penned based on her own attraction to the guy’s “soulful lyrics.”
All that ink made me happy.
It made me think of all the new discoveries I’d make for myself. All the new sounds and souls I’d be able to commiserate with.
Just last week, my next-door neighbor who I’d never had a whole lot of contact with decided to drop by to talk. Once we realized how much we had in common intellectually, our “chat” turned into a four-hour conversation FULL of rabbit holes and a stimulating new friendship. She’s actually the one who kept using the term. She gave me this magnificent book by Herman Hesse, “Siddhartha,” which did more for my spirit than anything has in months. She also lent me a bunch of music compilations which a friend had made for her … and from them I’ve discovered about 15 more folk artists who I’m determined to chase after, doggedly.
But I guess all this talk of music and prose is masking the deeper rabbit holes I’m really talking about, huh?
That talk with my neighbor was a highlight of this year so far. Yet I’ve found myself gravitating towards other people in my life as well … people who’s spirits are inquisitive like mine. People who are struggling to find their paths … people who are open and honest. The talks—the emails—the time spent with those people has opened up these personal rabbit holes, these personal paths of exploration, both in myself and into the lives of others. Each time I meet a person willing to really listen; each time I really listen, good things, more deeply felt experiences, seem to take place.
And when they do, it’s as though the veil of the present drops away and you see the suffering, the joy, the struggles and the intricacies of people you used to just have a passing knowledge of. One of the books I wrote down tonight was by Milan Kundera, titled “The Curtain,” which is about how novels, good novels, possess the singular ability to slip aside the “curtain” that all of us form for ourselves … the narrative we assign to the world … the structure into which we fit every happening in our lives. I haven’t read the book yet, so I suppose I shouldn’t attempt to sum it up. But from what I did read, Kundera believes that novels, at their best, push aside that curtain and show us elements of the world that can’t—wont’—fit into our neat structures. They bust the structures, and force us to form new ones.
And that, to me, sounds so, so healthy.
Anyway—it just seems to me that when we, as humans, open ourselves to the situations and struggles of others, we give the lie to any feelings of loneliness that might try to isolate us. As I learn, gradually, to become more accepting, I’m learning that people continually surprise me with their depth and verve.
Think of all the rabbit holes we have in store. On top of each breath, on top of the lyrical evening breezes and moonlit rivers flowing by, we have each other. We have new heights to hit and new riddles to solve. But only for the curious. Only for those who are willing to look for the rabbit holes ... and willing to jump.
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We only have these times we're living in.
- Kate Wolf
Be here now.
- Ray Lamontagne
The true profession of man is to find his way to himself.
- Herman Hesse
Well It’s 3 a.m. again, like it always seems to be,
Driving northbound, driving homeward, driving wind is driving me.
It just seems so funny, how I always end up here – walkin’ outside in a storm while looking way up past the treeline.
It’s been some time.
Give me darkness when I’m dreaming. Give me moonlight when I’m leaning. Give me shoes that weren’t made for standing.
Give me treeline, give me big sky. Give me snow-bound, give me rain clouds. Give me bedtimes, just sometimes.
Now you’re talking in my room, but there ain't nobody here. Cause I’ve been driving like a trucker, I’ve been wearing through the gears.
I’ve been training like a soldier, I’ve been burning through this sorrow. And the only talking lately is a background radio.
You are my friend—and I was the same.
And riding that hope was like catching some train.
Now I just walk, but I don’t mind the rain.
Mmmm … singin’ so much softer than I did back then.
Well the night I think is darker, than we can really say. And God’s been living in that ocean, sending us all them big waves.
And I wish I was a sailor, so I could know just how to trust. Maybe I could bring some grace back home to dry land for each of us.
- Gregory Alan Isakov, "3 a.m."
