Gay Geek

The birds chirped, sirens wailed, Harlem awoke from an evening’s slumber. Weekend mornings were filled with literary stimulation. Strolling past brownstone lined sidewalks, orange leaves painting the gritty grey sidewalk; lust ravaged my heart. “Coffee, coffee, gimme coffee.”

Brownstones disappeared; tenements enchanted the hazy senses, while clouds paraded in nature’s blank canvass. More enchanting than finding the lost mummies, was finding a seat at my local coffee house.

Espresso machines steam, beans sizzled, and bagels popped out of conventional toasters. In typical weekend fashion, I take out my library of books from my murse and sip on a vanilla soy latte (my favorite weekend treat).

On a particularly grey Saturday, something went missing. “Shit, where is my Batman notebook? I just came up with another brilliant idea” I didn’t quite hyperventilate, but quickly jotted down the idea on my phone (which is not preferable).

Racing back to my apartment, I dug for my super hero notebook. It had my ideas and the outline for my novel. Digging through laundry, I couldn’t find it. Setting a flashlight underneath the couch, it became even more illusive. Sitting on my bed, I remained calm as a decaf coffee.

“It must be in that care package, I sent dad. That’s it, I accidentally sent it.” The package arrived at my father’s Riverside home. Unfortunately, he didn’t see the notebook.

Panic and paranoia settled like fog from the Hudson. Would my beloved notebook fall into the wrong hands? It terrified me. I didn’t exactly write the outline for another Pulitzer Prize winning novel, but I had an emotional attachment to story.

If someone saw my outline, they may steal my idea and publish my novel. Anxiety ravaged my senses. In order to unwind, I paid a visit to the local bookshop.

Charmed by the titles, I imagined my future novel within the shelves of bookshops, everywhere. Book sales would afford me a small craftsman style home, antique typewriter, and piles of books

“Tear, tear, but my notebook is missing. I might not ever come up with another book idea. Goodbye, craftsman style house, book signings and Cocker spaniel watching me type away.”

Retail therapy helped. I bought loads of good books at dramatically reduced prices. After admiring my purchases, another dig for that precious notebook, commenced.

Opening a filing cabinet, paperwork filled its very brim. I dug, nervously. Alas, the notebook could not be found. Feeling desperate, I sorted through the paperwork, again. Then the book gods granted me a sight grander than uncovering a rare Shakespearean manuscript.

Lit in faded glory, my Batman notebook. I couldn’t believe it. My dreams of a craftsman style home, cocker spaniel, and book signings were lovingly restored. Dead poets, authors, and playwrights paraded in joy. I grabbed the notebook and caressed it, as though it were a long lost relative.

Eventually, I kept my notebook in a safe place. Afterwards, I commenced on the third draft of my novel. If awards and acclaim didn’t reach my sensibilities, giving up on my dreams of writing a novel wasn’t an option.

Advertisements

Porn for Bookworms

New York City is a most ideal place to have a nervous meltdown. Crowds, noise, bugs, extreme weather stimulate the happy neurotic. Exhaustion and agony arise from the trekking up a fifth floor walk-up. With brain cells about to explode into a glittery abyss, salvation is uncovered. Lust awakens.

More potent than a handsome man’s pheromone’s, is the smell of an old bookshop. Familiar, dizzying, and nostalgic, the scent beckons me to lands far from my chaotic mindset. Marvelous little bookshops line side streets, narrow venues, and quirky tenements.

Stacking up on used books, pages slightly bent, words underlined or highlighted with flashy neon serves as an ideal happiness. While practically waltzing on the icy New York pavement, I revel in my deeply discounted literature.

As an introvert, books are merry friends keeping riveted and delighted, in the midst of fear and boredom. The “I love books more than people (most of the time) song constantly delights my ear drums, upon the reading of a new novel. A deep seeded and very first world predicament erupted into my wordy principality.

“Shit, I’m running out of room in my apartment.” My books were pilling up higher than a kite along a windy sky. With closets and kitchen cabinets cluttered with books, paperwork, and sweaters, I took a bold step for bookworms of all kind.

My holidays (and virtually every break) have always been spent at my father’s home in Riverside. I would create my own little bookshop/coffee shop hybrid in his spare bedroom. It would be like being in the world’s greatest library without a subway ride (just an expensive plane ride, of course).

Speed reading through my favorite books, they were soon on a box to Riverside. Studying home libraries, online, my heart nearly bounced out of my chest. It will be a shrine to the literary greats, which inspire me, daily.

The first rounds of books arrived. Excitedly, my dad took pictures for me. With great excitement, I booked a trip to California. Though, my home library remains a work in progress, I already have the role-playing scenario in my head.

Here it is:

I’ll walk up the stairs with my murse (man purse), eager for coffee and a day at the bookstore. Excitedly, I’ll see the books lined beautifully on the shelves and jump with giddiness. “Look, Books, Books, books! Oh, coffee, too! My, what a marvelous world.”

After stuffing a few books in my murse, it will be coffee time. Taking a seat on a very comfortable chair and clipping my own coffee card, I indulge in literary deliciousness. Poetry, novels, autobiographies, Double shot of espresso naturally follows. It will be a holiday to remember.

“What a day at the bookshop/coffee shop. I didn’t even have go on a subway to get here, just a 2,000 something mile plane ride. That is my ideal scenario.

With far out dreaming, I must wait for my next visit to make this bookworm’s fantasy come to true. In the meantime, I thoroughly enjoy my bookshop visits and the high from finding that “Charles Dickens” book, deeply discounted.