With the time change, it is now dark when I walk my dogs in the morning. Darkness makes me inordinately lethargic, and I tend to fixate on one thing to wake my brain up, until coffee takes over. This morning, I walked my dogs along our usual path, and they sniffed their usual spots. At one stop, as I stared down at the sidewalk, I noticed a snail slime path coming from the left. The snail had evidently slimed its way across the sidewalk until it was almost an inch from the right side, then did a U-turn, and returned to the grass on the left. It's a wide sidewalk, so the creature's round trip was about six feet. It must have taken all night. Why did it turn around? What goes on in a snail's brain? How far can they see? Maybe it got frustrated or nervous, and turned around.
I know nothing about snails, except that I find them rather charming, in a Beatrix Potter, idealized sort of way. I find slugs repulsive, but slap a cute curly little shell on it, and I want to name it and keep it as a pet.
I probably wouldn't have even noticed this snail trail today except for the fact that yesterday, I noticed about six or seven snails in the same spot, all moving in the same direction, left to right. A herd of snails. A flock of snails. A stampede of snails, all headed doggedly (as if a snail can be any other way) towards the same place. It was actually kind of a funny sight, as if they were in a race. So this morning, I wondered if there was a connection between the two molluscan events? Maybe they were a pride of snails who migrated to the other side of the sidewalk, for reasons known only to them. Maybe the snail from today was a pariah, and was left behind on purpose. As it approached the new settlement, the other snails sent out a wave-off, or a warning shot over the bow.
Or maybe it was a devoted parent, who was unwilling to leave a snaillette? Maybe it forgot something, and had to return to retrieve it? Perhaps it suddenly and capriciously chose the life of a snail hermit? I'll never know.
These are the kind of things that skitter through my mind in the morning. I may need to up my caffeine intake.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Goodbye to Books
I cleaned off a bookshelf today. This is a big deal, because I don’t like to clean anything, but the shelves had a coat of dust that was depressing. I have close to 3000 books, all told, shoved onto bookshelves, piled up on the floor. There’s not a flat surface anywhere in my home outside of the kitchen and bathroom that doesn’t hold books.
It took me most of the day just to clean off this one bookcase, because as I dusted the books, I looked through each one. I’ve been thinking of purging my collection of books that hold no value, either sentimental, financial, or intellectual, but I find it hard to part with even a bad book. They seem so precious now. As I looked through each one, I became sad. I never thought it was possible that I would live in an age where bookstores are dying off, like haberdasheries or typewriter stores. But it’s a fact. Independents and chain stores alike are closing shop. It’s a combination of people becoming more stupid and people becoming more techno-savvy.
The first question my students ask when we start a novel is, “Is there a movie of this?” They don’t even look at the cover and they whine when I start to tell them about the author and the historical context. They complain about having to read so much, even though we only read five to six books a year. They express genuine puzzlement when asked any question that can’t be answered with a direct quote in front of them. It seems every year, I have fewer and fewer students who can envision beyond the page, who can analyze a character like Nick Carraway or Huck Finn or Scout Finch by their words, rather than being hit over the head with an explanation from me or the author. It’s not just my students; there’s evidence of this phenomena everywhere. As a race, we seem to be losing our inner eye. We’re becoming at once less imaginative and more demanding and jaded about visual wizardry. Look at the movies that are massive hits now. Huge, over-the-top, 3-D effects with minimal stories and tepid characters. Lovely language doesn’t matter anymore.
I don’t know if this slide in intelligence is connected to the rise in our technological prowess. Everything is available to us at our fingertips. If I admit in a class discussion that I don’t know a fact, a dozen students will reach for their phones to look it up. A few days ago, I asked my sophomores to look up ten words in the dictionary. In each class, at least three or four students admitted that they didn’t know how to find a word in a traditional book dictionary. They rely on spell check and online dictionaries in which they type in the word, and the definition appears. But finding something in alphabetical order flummoxed them. It was so strange and unexpected, but then I remembered that these kids have never lived without computers around them everywhere. They have never known a time when there weren’t cellphones and the internet in every household. I wonder if there’s even any point in explaining how to use a library to find information for a research paper, because libraries as brick and mortar entities are also dying out. Through our smart phones, we can hold a library, museum, or instruction manual in our hand,
Let me make one thing clear: I’m not casting the first stone, because I am certainly deeply entrenched in the grid. I’d lose a tooth before I’d give up my iPhone, and I switch on my laptop automatically when I get home from school. I’m sure I’ll cave one day and buy an e-reader, but I’m going to hold out as long as possible. Libraries and bookstores are dying and I don’t want to be a party to their demise until I have no choice. Nothing makes me happier than walking into a bookstore, and looking at each section, picking up books and skimming the first few pages, chatting with the store owner or clerk. Book people are like any group of fanatics: we have our own vernacular, our snobberies, our causes. We’ll champion long dead authors and wrestle to the floor over the meaning of a Shakespearean line.
I used have a circuit of new and used bookstores that I would frequent on a Saturday. Acres of Books in Long Beach, Duttons in Brentwood, Borders in Sherman Oaks, Book Soup on Sunset, Iliad in North Hollywood. I’m sure the first three are closed now, and the other two are struggling. I worked at a bookstore during the summers, and would spend most of my paycheck taking advantage of my employee discount. When I visit a city or place I’ve never been before, the first thing I look for is a bookstore. The first section of a mall or thrift shop I go to is where the books are. It was my dream for years to own a little bookstore, but I know that is a lost cause. Yet, I will always have books around me, and I’ll continue to buy them, as long as I have money. It’s an illness and a compulsion, but I’m okay with it. As books become less important in society, I’ll make it my private mission to keep and care for them, like some little fairy tale troll under a bridge, mumbling over the shiny rocks she’s collected. It’s a worrying obsession, but it’s cheaper than Faberge eggs, and saner than teddy bears or pet cats.
It took me most of the day just to clean off this one bookcase, because as I dusted the books, I looked through each one. I’ve been thinking of purging my collection of books that hold no value, either sentimental, financial, or intellectual, but I find it hard to part with even a bad book. They seem so precious now. As I looked through each one, I became sad. I never thought it was possible that I would live in an age where bookstores are dying off, like haberdasheries or typewriter stores. But it’s a fact. Independents and chain stores alike are closing shop. It’s a combination of people becoming more stupid and people becoming more techno-savvy.
The first question my students ask when we start a novel is, “Is there a movie of this?” They don’t even look at the cover and they whine when I start to tell them about the author and the historical context. They complain about having to read so much, even though we only read five to six books a year. They express genuine puzzlement when asked any question that can’t be answered with a direct quote in front of them. It seems every year, I have fewer and fewer students who can envision beyond the page, who can analyze a character like Nick Carraway or Huck Finn or Scout Finch by their words, rather than being hit over the head with an explanation from me or the author. It’s not just my students; there’s evidence of this phenomena everywhere. As a race, we seem to be losing our inner eye. We’re becoming at once less imaginative and more demanding and jaded about visual wizardry. Look at the movies that are massive hits now. Huge, over-the-top, 3-D effects with minimal stories and tepid characters. Lovely language doesn’t matter anymore.
I don’t know if this slide in intelligence is connected to the rise in our technological prowess. Everything is available to us at our fingertips. If I admit in a class discussion that I don’t know a fact, a dozen students will reach for their phones to look it up. A few days ago, I asked my sophomores to look up ten words in the dictionary. In each class, at least three or four students admitted that they didn’t know how to find a word in a traditional book dictionary. They rely on spell check and online dictionaries in which they type in the word, and the definition appears. But finding something in alphabetical order flummoxed them. It was so strange and unexpected, but then I remembered that these kids have never lived without computers around them everywhere. They have never known a time when there weren’t cellphones and the internet in every household. I wonder if there’s even any point in explaining how to use a library to find information for a research paper, because libraries as brick and mortar entities are also dying out. Through our smart phones, we can hold a library, museum, or instruction manual in our hand,
Let me make one thing clear: I’m not casting the first stone, because I am certainly deeply entrenched in the grid. I’d lose a tooth before I’d give up my iPhone, and I switch on my laptop automatically when I get home from school. I’m sure I’ll cave one day and buy an e-reader, but I’m going to hold out as long as possible. Libraries and bookstores are dying and I don’t want to be a party to their demise until I have no choice. Nothing makes me happier than walking into a bookstore, and looking at each section, picking up books and skimming the first few pages, chatting with the store owner or clerk. Book people are like any group of fanatics: we have our own vernacular, our snobberies, our causes. We’ll champion long dead authors and wrestle to the floor over the meaning of a Shakespearean line.
I used have a circuit of new and used bookstores that I would frequent on a Saturday. Acres of Books in Long Beach, Duttons in Brentwood, Borders in Sherman Oaks, Book Soup on Sunset, Iliad in North Hollywood. I’m sure the first three are closed now, and the other two are struggling. I worked at a bookstore during the summers, and would spend most of my paycheck taking advantage of my employee discount. When I visit a city or place I’ve never been before, the first thing I look for is a bookstore. The first section of a mall or thrift shop I go to is where the books are. It was my dream for years to own a little bookstore, but I know that is a lost cause. Yet, I will always have books around me, and I’ll continue to buy them, as long as I have money. It’s an illness and a compulsion, but I’m okay with it. As books become less important in society, I’ll make it my private mission to keep and care for them, like some little fairy tale troll under a bridge, mumbling over the shiny rocks she’s collected. It’s a worrying obsession, but it’s cheaper than Faberge eggs, and saner than teddy bears or pet cats.
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