We are sitting in our shop today a little exhausted from the recent hustle of events: rock shows, parking lot parties, book clubs, emails, late night idea sessions, and dog wrestling. Opening up the world again, for us, has been a mad dash of activity. The high-octane world of used bookselling is, by the direct will of our desire, eventful. A new arrivals email goes out and folks come in beaming to get that weird PKD book or that book on exorcism. “How did you find a book on LABYRINTHS?!?” one exclaims. “It wasn’t easy,” we reply, and vanish into a hedge maze. We throw a punk show and those kids are–despite conventional wisdom–some of the kindest and most considerate visitors we’ve ever had. THEY ARE SO GOOD TO THE BOOKS! They buy politics, poetry and philosophy, and snarl about Satan into a microphone. They even help clean up at the end of the night. Kids from Central public school come over EVERY LUNCH to pet Snackers and Cooper, who have now, it seems, become the new Mac the Parrot of downtown London. Life keeps us present, as it should. How can we fear the future when we’re drowning in the gleeful squeals of kids skipping class to play with pets?
It is only at night that we get a chance to drift into the past and future. Of course, both of these are imaginary, as the past no longer exists and the future is simply theoretical. These are day dreams, our brains changing memories each time we recall them and the projections upon Tomorrow barely ever accurate. Who knew that the soggy, swampy downtown neighbourhoods of London, Ontario would be the thin tether separating the two? We sit on our back porch as four (count them FOUR) pets wander through the uncut grass–Snackers sniffing flowers, Cooper chasing a frog, Lilly our one-eyed cat resting on Jason’s lap and Wednesday, our other cat, hating everything–the oppressive heat of the Thames Valley pushing our bodies into a timeless opiate stupour like the salty gravity of Venus. “When did we open the shop again?” Vanessa asks. “2015,” Jason replies, looking at Lilly. “2014,” Lilly says, “I have one eye and I still function better than you.” “I have one eye too,” Jason says. “That is why I love you,” says the cat, and snuggles deeper into his lap.
We dream about this place. We shouldn’t, as it’s a business and business things should be in reality. There it is, though, in our dreams. Our shop but not our shop. Friends, acquaintances, that weird guy who never buys anything, past teachers, our parents, the mayor for some reason. There’s a second shop in a second London that hovers over this one. It has its own rhythm. It influences the real one. We wake up and–no word of a lie–share ideas that BOTH OF US HAD separately that are the same. Victoria Park chugs along outside of our window with its drunks and students and vandals and trees and we shake off the past and future stuck to our brains like sap. Who is going to walk through the door today? What books will be buy? Who did kill Ambrose Small? This space used to be a children’s bookshop at one point and a lady who worked here came in once and pointed out where everything used to be. “That’s where the stairs where,” she said. “THERE WERE STAIRS?” we said. “Yup. This place had a second floor.” This place needs a second floor again for all the things in the dark.
For now we only have our door and the real-time jingle of our doorbell as someone walks in to say hello. That’s enough for now, we think. Best not get ahead of ourselves.
Much love,
Jason and Vanessa
