Half Life

An old book with a post-it marking where I left off, page thirty-seven, some eighteen and a half years ago. I'm guessing. The notations and underlines are from the previous owner, this book a gift, and I have no recollection of the text itself, except for the note in ink on the small piece of yellow paper. I recognize the handwriting. I know the name mentioned. I may or may not have read any of the book. Other things I'll never forget.

Don't worry. I have no plans to burn my library. Besides, I pulled the book for a reason: Maybe this time I will read it in entirety. I want to. After all, that is the reason. For the action, anyway. And should I read it, I will hurry toward my purpose lest I forget what it is I want to understand from it. Learn, understand, apply. So simple a method.

What book? A matter? Were I to write my own, some things would hold true, as in constant, along with the paradox contained,  always a portion that slips away, unrecognizable except perhaps for style. A partial print, if you will, or a poem written for an anniversary.

An oddity: As soon as I walk into a library I have to take a shit. Granted, decaying paper may have something to do with it. Yet, the associative mind and the limbic brain coexist, so credit must be given to that initial impulse in prey or hunter to lighten the load, my satchel no match for the shelves contained within. And with that I leave my mark. See if I haven't.

So there the book sits, it's cover carries a photo of the author, much younger than now, somewhat attractive, perhaps Sephardic and therefore most likely the brunette she is, lips parted just enough to show a bit of her slight overbite, her eyes intent on something to our right and behind us. There is wind enough to pull a wisp from behind her right ear. Her right hand resting on that side of her jaw tells us she is speaking with someone. Her dress is a simple print, and the ring on that finger is large and oblong, but not ostentatious. It occurs to me that the pose references the first word in the title: Desire. The remainder of words take another direction. We are to engage our minds.

The book is a collection of essays. There is an editor. Still very much alive, perhaps she was too busy or it was a favor.

"How are classes going?"

"Well, thank you."

"Has there been talk of tenure?"

I mean no ill will. Fondness exists for its proof.

All of this may be an avoidance. I have a thing for brunettes, and it often has not been in the best interest of either.