22 February 2007
Last night I walked to the shop to keyboard a poem about aging I'd dashed off unthinking except for rhythms and sympathetic syllables. I woke up the old Mac and typed in the lines, and then I locked the place up again and started east down Second Street toward my little house. The evening was black and cool and the old street lamps' light reflected a little from the damp asphalt and from parked cars' windows. Ahead of me three-quarters of a block the weak light illuminated something low overhead, a white winged creature now soaring, now fluttering in place like a great, silent moth, now soaring again. It was an owl, probably a barn owl or maybe a snowy, bright, scrutinizing the quiet empty streets for a glimpse of dinner. I slowed my steps and then stopped to watch, but when I did the owl seemed to fix its attention on me and turned out of its way to fly to where I stood. I stood transfixed as it drew near and then stopped overhead, fluttering in place perhaps 50 feet directly above me. Hello, I said, and I grinned upward at it, and after another flutter or two the quiet bird turned its attention toward an unlighted side street and fluttered off. I like to think I communed for a moment, was visited and greeted and blessed. But then I wonder whether owls seek body heat, and whether my upturned face looked to it like a little white animal peering out from between my great long overcoat and woolen hat. No matter. I carry in my memory the gentle image of that small pale angel flapping overhead like the Holy Spirit, my welcoming face open and loving below, the two of us exchanging something.

23 February 2007
I'm thrilled to report my arrival tonight at a point halfway and a little beyond in Holroyd's Lytton Strachey biography. A small magic has occurred with relation to this. You will recall yesterday's description of my encounter with the owl. This evening then I got quite a jolt when I read on page 549 a piece of a letter wherein he asks a friend to have an "owl stuffed with wings outspread, so that I may hang it up over my bed and confuse it with the Holy Spirit in my last moments."

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I want you to know that I'm getting very good at finding just the book any customer describes these days. My latest triumph: the young man who just opened the skateboard shop next-door to the old Golden Egg (the lawyer moved away) came in this afternoon and asked for "that Hunter Thompson book with the cover that looks like a pack of Camels." I brought him Tom Robbins' Still Life with Woodpecker. "Thats it!!" he cried.

24 February 2007
My Saturday helper came in today. It's a dilemma. She's a nice girl. But her family is very poor and she works here to earn their gasoline money. I wanted to let her go the first day: she hates working with books, and so I hear lots of heavy sighing every time I give her something to do; she hates people, so I can expect no customer assistance; alphabetizing is not on the menu, so I've been having her organize the romances by color (series)--pretty simple, but her lower back hurts too much if she bends over and her upper back hurts if she squats properly. She comes in on Saturdays at noon having had nothing to eat yet--or, as today, having eaten only half a donut--counting on my snacks. I talked to the school counselor who had asked me to hire her, and she asked whether I couldn't hang onto her if they got her into some program where they paid her wages and worker's comp. I said OK. I regret it, but I'm torn. I want her to eat ... but I'd like to have an employee who wants to be here--who likes books, at least. But if the special program pays, I suppose I could find her something antisocial to do for four hours a week. Eventually I'll have inventory software and a barcode reader. Nothing makes her happier than being allowed to sit at the computer.

The business week started out dreary and saleless, but Thursday-Friday-Saturday have almost made up for the quiet days. Many friends pop in and out the door, and that's a good feeling. Maybe next month I can get a phone line at home and finally resume blogging for real. It's funny, I go around the house talking to you all in my head but never able to grab up the Powerbook and go with it. Then I don't write anything when I do have the chance, because I think I've told you already. Ha!