Yesterday I listened to Robert Johnson and read Henry Rollins to get through my misery. There’s nothing like Johnson’s century-old blues to make me feel better – it’s like listening to a ghost, reminding me that the shit I’m going through ain’t nothing new.
And if you’ve ever read (or listened to) Rollins, then you know he’s not one for brokenhearted laments to former lovers. His writing is where I channel my anger, as I read about how he wants to smash people’s faces in and other uplifting gems such as “Another night that reeks of blood and gin, frustration, and an overwhelming all-consuming sense of loss.”
So after I listened to Robert and read Henry, I found myself at the public library. My sanctuary. My safe haven. Always has been, always will be. Amongst the shelves, I have the world at my fingertips. I can browse to my heart’s desire, settling on whatever interests me – anything to get my mind off of my former amore.
Sure, I have access to the world via the internet at home, but it’s just not the same. I like the smell of old books with their dust jackets and yellowing pages. I like well-informed librarians and the Dewey Decimal system. I like losing myself amongst the stacks, knowing that the exit to the real world is just a few feet away if, and when, I need it.
And I like the fact that when I’m browsing at the library, I don’t have someone constantly popping up, trying to get me to enlarge my penis or win a free iPod.