Week 02…

So, they all told me to go to Green Apple Books, down on Clement Street. What they didn’t know was that in my previous wanderings, I had already taken a bite — I had visited their smaller location, “Books on the Park” after touring the Botanical Garden over one long weekend. I had emerged from my sun-soaked sojourn in need of a sit-down, but of course upon passing the window-display, I instead went inside the shop.

After all, if you give a Meg a hot beverage, she’s going to need a book to go with it.

Since gulping down hot chocolates with Mum, Dad and Robbie in our halcyon Barnes and Noble treat-days, bookstores have been one of my sacred places. And B.B&N., I was raised in libraries — reading card catalogues chapter, verse, and Dewey decimal. I even have a very clear memory of sitting in church and reading an illustrated version of Moby Dick (this was only allowed during the sermon, but the remainder of the time was for singing, so I didn’t mind).

Now that I’m older (and my love of words has developed to the point where I can appreciate a well-delivered homily), the thrill of walking into a store stacked floor to ceiling with books is the same spine-shivering sensation I get when entering a gothic cathedral. There is a resonance special to all such places: the air thrums with words about to be spoken, stories yet to be shared, and discoveries mysterious.

But back to the books, booksellers, and bookstores of San Francisco — I am delighted to report that there are no shortage here, each with their own unique character. The aforementioned Green Apple is truly a gem, showcasing shelves upon shelves of tomes, and a near-palpable pride of its place in San Francisco history. The staff recommendations are worth the price of admission (it’s free, but tell that to my poor wallet), and one can easily spend an entire afternoon just wandering between floors (OK, it wasn’t an entire afternoon, just 3 hours — no need for a search party, anyone who knows me would have known I was safe, sound, and on the verge of making questionable financial decisions).

In celebration of the many neighborhood bookstores yet to patronize, I’d like to end this week’s post by sharing (for lack of a more eloquent expression) the “vibes” I experience when reading certain authors:

(currently reading) Thomas Pynchon: Listening to your erudite-almost-esoteric friend, go on the holy-mother-of-god of all tangents. But, because you so enjoy the way they express themselves, and the sound of their voice, you never want it to end

(last read) Matt Dinniman: Simultaneously playing the most unhinged round of DnD imaginable, while a wall of visually-arresting Twitch streams play behind the DM

(will always read) Haruki Murakami: Slowly sipping from your glass while jazz or classical music filters in from somewhere above. And then drifting to sleep while watching a cat wander down the alley — no wait, the cat is in your apartment, and it has a few things to say

(GNU) Terry Pratchett: The world is a dumpster fire? Come and have a nice mug of tea (it’s mostly apples) while we warm ourselves by the flames, laugh at the idiots, and then set everything to rights through common sense, a little metaphorical-magic, and a LOT of hope and belief in the inherent goodness of others (it’s in there somewhere, just poke it with a stick)

t.t.f.n. (ta-ta for now) 

SF Neighborhoods/Places Explored: Ocean Beach, Golden Gate Park (Dutch and Murphy windmills, soccer fields, and Chain of Lakes), Upper Haight

Soundtrack: Patrick Doyle

Bus + Bench Book: The Crying of Lot 49, Thomas Pynchon (2/3 finished)

Lesson-Learned: When you feel trapped, get OUT(side)