Anodyne
Monday, June 12, 2006
 

Ghost-hunting, East Broadway.

I'm 36 today, hard as that is to believe. Pulpfiction is 6 as of 11am. Originally I had not thought to open on my birthday, but the shelves were built and the books were on the shelves and my two weeks of free rent were rapidly eroding, so I propped open the front door, put out the signboard, and made approximately $80 in eight hours, much of that from the already established used bookseller down the block, who dropped by late in the day, attempted to remove everything good and/or underpriced on a dealer discount, and then indulged in a little trash-talk. "You'll never last," he informed me, having firmly secured the H.P. Lovecraft section under one arm. "We'll see," I replied, still struck by the novelty of twenties in the cash box.

He's still here. So am I.

William Stafford:

"...One afternoon each year
is yours. It stands again
across a certain field and is the same --
a day no year can hold, but always
warm, paused in the light, looking
back and forward, where everything counts..."
- posted by cjb @ 9:12 AM


<< Home

Powered by Blogger

.post-title { display: none!important; }