blue feathers...

Who says books don’t have an impact on your life?

About thirty years ago, I read the follow up to Richard Bach’s book Jonathan Livingston Seagull called The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah. It was the first time I really heard the concept that you create your own life and that the creation of that life begins in your mind.

In this book, the Messiah, a mechanic who can do miracles and assures everyone he meets that they can as well, teaches Richard Bach how to magnetise things into his life. He tells him to start small, visualise something simple – that if he would hold it in his mind and expect it to come into his life, it would appear. Somehow, somewhere, what you see, strongly, clearly and with expectation, will come to you. You can’t be sure in what form or how it will appear but it will.

Richard Bach visualised a blue feather just to practice and a day or so later, he bought a carton of milk and on the label was a picture of a blue feather.
Ever since I read that, blue feathers have been a buzz for me. Whenever I see a blue feather, I am reminded that I’m in charge of my own life and that there are more things in heaven and earth than I can comprehend with my tiny mind.

About two months ago, a little kid came into my shop carrying a big beautiful blue feather. I went nuts for this feather, telling the kid and his mother how I collect feathers and particularly blue ones. The mother told me that HER mother owned a Macaw and they had heaps of blue feathers at their house. I told them I was jealous. I took it as a good omen for the day and forgot about it.

Last week, they came in again. To tell the truth, I doubt I would have remembered them except that the little boy had a pressie for me; two big beautiful blue Macaw feathers! I gave him a pressie back – a giant bug and some play dough. He seemed as pleased with that as I was with my blue feathers.



How cool is that! Things like this are reason I remain hopeful that we, as in humankind in general, won’t kill ourselves off completely. I know there’s too much thoughtless shitiness in the world but there’s also so much thoughtful niceness.

God, I hate to sound like a Hallmark card but it really is the little things in life that make life worth living.









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...on elephants

The other day, a writer friend of mine came into the Incidental Bookshop. I took her photo and told her that I keep a blog and that she was about to star in it. I haven’t got around to writing her up yet but I think of her all the time now because when I mentioned the blog to her, she said, “A blog about the bookshop? What on earth do you find to write about?”

Man, I wish I had TIME to write about everything that happens in this shop.
They’re small things generally, of course - moments, snippets of conversations, a young man looking for Ginger Meggs comics to read to his blind Grandad, an old man delighted to find Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn on the classics tables to read to his grandson.

Today, a couple came up to the counter holding a book they’d found on one of the tables. The lady said to me, “I just wanted to tell you a bit of history about this book.”

Well, you know me – I love that kind of thing. I had a look at the book’s cover. It was the elephant book that no-one buys: Queenie – One Elephant’s Story. It’s in one of those difficult to sell categories – true stories for the picture book generation.

Queenie was apparently famous the length and breadth of Australia in the first half of the 20th century as a people mover at Melbourne Zoo. She was elephant-napped in India as a baby and brought to Australia where she spent the rest of her life walking around Melbourne Zoo with a bunch of tourists on her back. In the early ‘40s she crushed her keeper, something most people believed was an accident, and was euthanized. Humans are so fickle!

It turns out that the husband half of the couple who brought the book to my attention is the great grandson of Queenie’s very first keeper, Mr Parsons, back in 1902 or so. The great grandson’s name is Albert Strong – a good name to be associated with a story about elephants, don’t you think?

district 9

I love a good sci fi movie. Oh, jeez, okay, I admit it - I've been known to love even a bad sci fi movie.

And so it was that I have been looking forward, with saliva dribbling from my mouth, to the arrival of District 9 at my neighbourhood cinema.

I went along to see it tonight and what can I say? It's as good as the word of mouth told me it would be. And all the better for the fact that for the first twenty minutes, I could barely stand it. I detested the main character - he was a nasty wanker - in other words, the quintessential bureaucrat and I couldn't understand his South African accent. The aliens made me sick to my stomach with their crazy diet. The hand held camera and documentary style made it difficult to follow the action and I felt like I was on one of those scary rides at the show.

But something really strange and magical happened - the film sneakily revealed everybody's humanity ... or do I mean, alien-ness? ... and I suddenly found myself heavily engrossed in the story and invested in the outcome.

Man, it was gory! There were tank chases and helicopter crashes! There was stuff blowin' up all over the shop! There was every kind of weapon known to man and plenty I've never seen before as well. There was an alien ship shot down to skid through a Johannesburg slum! There were heads blown off and arms chopped up.

I tell you this to set up something happened on the way out of the theatre that had me and The Princess Bookaholic laughing our guts out all the way home. As we left the cinema, we were talking about how much we liked the film and how we both felt the same way - that we could have left in the first twenty minutes and would have been glad to escape. We walked past a group of young guys and heard one of them say, "Meh, it was o-kay.... I expected there to be a bit more action."

A BIT MORE ACTION??????

I looked at the guy with what I suspect was utter incredulity and then at The Princess Bookaholic. She was looking at me in just the same way. We burst out laughing and laughed all the way back to the car, making wild arm motions and coming up with crazy hypothetical action sequences as we tried to imagine what else they could have blown up and how many more creatures, human and otherwise, they could have 'sploded.

I looked back at the guy and could tell he knew we were laughing at him. I felt bad but he smiled at me sheepishly. I'm pretty sure he realised it was a silly thing to say.

Anyway, District 9 is indeed a remarkable movie, all the more because I so hated the beginning of it. I can't believe it brought me back from there.

In conclusion, I have only one more thing to add...

SE-QUEL! SE-QUEL! SE-QUEL! SE-QUEL! SE-QUEL!

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everything is over-rated...

Today a guy came in looking for a calligraphy set for his daughter. He was a funny man and we kind of chatted a little as I tried to find the set for him amongst the piles of new stock that came in yesterday. "It should be in the craft section," I said.

He said, "Oh, I've already got craft."

I raised an eyebrow at him, not really understanding what he was saying.

"Craft. Can't Remember A Fucking Thing."

Haha.

I found his calligraphy set and as he paid, he said, "Calligraphy. You know, good handwriting is over-rated." I wasn't going to argue about it even though I happen to be heavily in favour of beautiful penmanship.

A philosophical look came over his face. "Well, just about everything is over-rated really. DEATH is over rated."

I raised my eyebrows again as though to say, "Oh, really?"

"Yep. I've been dead. It's not as scary as everyone makes out.'

"Hmmm..." I said, "Did you see the white light?"

"It was more of a blue really," he said. He picked up his calligraphy set and left.

For the rest of the day, I've been thinking, "Man, I REALLY want to know the rest of that story!"

... false arrest

So anyway, Sir Punk's name is Jeremy and he's from Woollongong. He told me that he settled on buying Les Miserables because he played Gavroche in a stage production when he was a kid. We had a great little chat and before he left, I gave him the address of the blog so he could check himself out.

What I didn't give him amongst all the chit chat was his receipt of purchase.

Five minutes later, Janelle from The Other Bookshop came in and picked up one of the classics. She brought it over to me and said, "You didn't just sell a bikie looking guy one of these books, did you?"

Oops! They sell the same edition there and when he went into their shop straight after mine, she saw him walk out with the one I'd just sold him and called security to look out for him. Oh dear. She hotfooted it back to The Other Bookshop and called security again to say something along the lines of "Abort! Abort! Mission to apprehend the only punk in North Queensland has been aborted!"

I thought it was kind of funny until bout five minutes later when up rocks Mark the Security Guard holding a familiar copy of Les Mis. Obviously, Janelle's message didn't reach them soon enough.

Jeez, YES! I did sell the bikie looking punk a copy of Les Mis. If it's so unbelievable that he would buy the damn thing, why the hell would he nick it?

I said just that to Mark but in a nicer way and he said they were holding Punk Jeremy from Woollongong at the Police Beat office. I felt real bad about it; it was because I got chatting about the blog and Les Mis and all of that that I didn't get him a receipt and he walked out without a bag.

I'm known as a bit of a soft touch in the centre - I am always saying things like, "I'm not that worried about locking up the shop - who's going to go to the trouble of breaking in to steal books that they couldn't even sell at full price in the first place?"

"Mate!" says Paul, the hardened Security Guy. "Mate, they'd steal anything! They'd steal the sole off your shoe if you walk too slow around here."

I don't think Mark really quite believed me that the guy had bought the book. I think he thought I was having a compassion attack and was lying to protect him. I said, "Mate, I took a picture of the man holding up his book!"

Mark said, "You what?"

I struggled valiantly to make my phone cough up the photo in question - usually I would wait to get The Princess Bookaholic to work my recalcitrant tech gadgets for me but she wasn't around and there was a Punk In Distress being unjustly detained.

I got the photo on screen finally and Mark cracked a smile as he looked at it. "Well, that's proof I guess," he said shaking his head at the oddness of me having a photo of the punk.

When we got to Police Beat, Paul my other favourite Security Guy was waiting outside the door with a look like thunder on his face. Apparently Jeremy had been somewhat aggravated at being dragged into the cop shop and he and Paul had got their masculinities a trifle ruffled; they were in the midst of a little to and fro-ing involving terms such as 'dick-head' and 'fuckwit'.

Paul was NOT happy to be told he had to let Jeremy go. He looked at me and said, "He bought it???'

Yes. For the hundredth time. The Punk bought a book!

"Bullshit!" said Paul and grabbed the camera off me to have a look. "Ok. Give me the book."

I pulled it out of his reach. "Uh-uh."

"I'll give it back to him," he said in the same tone as he might have used to say 'I'll shove it up his arse.'

"I'll give it back to him, no worries - but first I'm going to keep him here for an hour so he misses his bus." He grabbed the book off me.

"You can't do that."

"Why not? He's being a cockhead!"

"Paul! Because he didn't DO anything!" I grabbed the book back again and headed into Police Beat. There sat Jeremy in the waiting room, leaning forward, elbows on thighs, looking at the floor. He looked up at me like I was his long lost mother. I bent over and patted his cheek and said, "Oh, I'm sorry about that! It's my fault I didn't give you the receipt."

As we left, Paul and Jeremy exchanged final little verbal zingers. Dickhead. Prick. That kind of thing. Mark smiled and shook his head.

Outside, Jeremy said, "I was saying to them, 'The lady even took my photo!' They didn't believe me!"

"Well, I can't say I blame them - I don't believe I took it either."

What are the odds that the first time I talk myself into asking a stranger for his photo for the blog that I would need it within half an hour? What are the odds that the first time I have any business whatsoever with security regarding shoplifting that I would have photographic proof to back up a story that Paul was disinclined to believe?

Just before he went off with his book, now in a plastic shopping bag, he said, "I hate it that just because I look like I do, they think I can't read."

He's not worried that they might think he's a thug. Or that he might scare little old ladies with his blue and leopard print mohawk and his safety pinned ears. He just doesn't like it that someone would have the audacity to think he's illiterate! God, love 'im!

a punk in the 21st century...

I was sitting in the Incidental Bookshop this morning, tapping away on my laptop and thinking about how I should be be doing more with The Obsessions of an Incidental Bookseller, when into the shop walked a goddamnned punk. Yeah for real. Not the Clint Eastwood Do-you-feel-lucky-today-well-do-ya-punk type punk. The Sid Vicious type punk. The Vivian-off-the-young-ones type punk. I thought to myself, "See? That's the kind of thing I need to put in the blog." I thought to myself, "In fact, I ought to ask this guy if I can take his picture for the blog."

But I didn't expect I really would. I always think, when someone interesting comes in, that I should have taken their picture for the blog - but I never actually do it.

So then, the punk came right up to me and asked where the novel table was. I told him and asked if he was looking for anything in particular. Yeah. He was. Charles Dickens. Ha! There's fuel for your stereotype exploding machine, I thought to myself. I REALLY ought to take this guy's photo.

I tried to take a long shot of him without his permission because, you see, it's just not that easy asking strangers if you can take their photo. It has the potential to sound really very creepy. But I just couldn't get a decent shot of him with my camera phone as he rummaged around the classics table.

I watched him walk towards the counter with his book, still debating with myself - will I/won't I will I/won't I ask The Punk for permission to take his photo. It's hard. You're basically saying to someone, "My, don't you look UNUSUAL!" But what the hell! He DID look unusual!

He slapped down Victor Hugo's Les Miserables on the counter and I said to him, "My, don't you look UNUSUAL!" No, I didn't. I said, "Hey, I keep a blog about the interesting people who come into my shop and you're one of them. Can I take a photo of you for it?" He gave me a nice smile and said, "Yeah, sure."

"Hold your up book then," I said and snapped.

I can't believe I actually decided to ask. I can't believe I actually took that photo. I can't believe even more that within half an hour both he and I would be extremely glad I did!

Stay tuned for the next exciting episode of a punk in the 21st century...