Dear friends,
Fake spring has come and gone!
Eventually, the overwhelming, river valley resplendence of the region will burst forth in April—the cruelest month to a certain T.S. Eliot—as our gutters fill with dirt and salt and the riverbank’s life rises up like wakening bears. We will feel it in our bones: the annual reminder that we, too, are alive. Some of us will be caught standing in the middle of the street, staring at the blue-jay-coloured sky, blinking, wondering, “What on earth does London want from us now?”
All of this loveliness. All of this salt. All of these flowers bursting hither and thither. Is that the sound of children playing? Is that our neighbour hawking a luggie in their house? (We can hear it now that their window is open). Do we have to clean out our garage? Will we find new hope in the promise of youth? Or will we find that bench along the river path and lie in the spring sun, reading those books that piled up and up over the winter?
Seems like many are bringing their books to us. London’s literati have decided that now it is time to divest themselves of their aspirational reading. They have decided that it is their local bookseller who can be trusted with their un-read copies of great literature and deep, deep thoughts. Folks are coming in with boxes full of questionable purchases and unneeded gifts. As our city divests itself of winter, so too do we divest ourselves of heavy intellectual intentions.
IT IS TIME TO LIVE!
The shop door opens and a BLAST of fake spring terrorizes our sleepy clerks, still waking up from winter dreams. We feel a shaken hope return as the renegade, revolutionary powers of nature return to the sales floor. Did that customer overdress or underdress? we ask, as they haul an overstuffed bankers box to our desk. Is that sweat or tears on their face? Piles and piles of titles appear: books on hand bookbinding, herbalism, poetry, and moon-landing conspiracies abound. All those well-intentioned projects and world-shaking visions are represented. Did NASA lie to us about the moon landing? Will I quit my job and study hand-press bookmaking? All for naught! The trillium threatens to bloom! I must prepare myself for life’s real battles.
However, a time will come when these conflicts find their peace. Perhaps it will be one evening when dusk seems especially present and metaphysical. Perhaps it will be while tending tomatoes in a community garden. Perhaps it will be at Rock the Park (of all places). We will find an equilibrium between the stuff of nature and the dreams of identity. All of those books that called to us over the past season—piles and piles of things we ought to read—will make their stand. We will, for a brief moment, feel that we CAN read them. The long symmetry of lazy summertime will gently elbow out some gracious room in our brains. The hand-press bookmaker will briefly find harmony with the snow-shoveler. Perhaps we bought a new hat and are trying out a fresh look (at Rock the Park of all places). Perhaps this hat was all we needed to stand up to our dreams, our realities, and make do with what we have AND what we want.
That bookshop, perched like an osprey in an industrial part of town, will screech and beckon us back to get that steel-string guitar book. After all, why CAN’T we learn steel-string guitar? Our hands are already so manly. What are a few callouses on top of that? We survived fake spring in London. We can do anything.
Much love,
Jason & Vanessa
