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Observation essay

             Everywhere we go there is a wonderfully fascinating world just below the surface, to get there all we have to do is wipe the film from the window of our mind. I cleaned my window at a local bookstore. I walk into Border's Books and Music and I see an interesting variety of both patron and staff. I went there on a Sunday night, what an experience for someone who is paying attention.
             I sit in the corner watching the masses move by in a haze. They wander with a purpose, looking for the most recent shining beacon the media has placed on its spire. I watch as the sweat suit clad soccer mom reaches in front of the pin stripe suited businessman for a copy of the book he holds. As she opens the cover to read the teaser I hear the pages rustle like the jacket of an old friend who reaches to embrace you after a long separation. The gentle give of the paper, like the warm blanket that keeps you company on a cold winter night. That familiar reach for page after page as mechanical as breathing. She doesn't even see her daughter slick away to the erotica for a chance to learn by sight from works and pictures of what passion and intimacy are. Once she is gone I go to where she stand and smell her nervousness and excitement. As I walk down the aisles I feel the slick spines of the paperbacks and the rigid covers of the hard covers, all calling me to pick them up. Just below the slightly acidic smell of paper and ink you can smell the sweat of runners who take a moment to peruse the latest self-help releases. The unwashed stick lingering from the wandering homeless looking for a moment's shelter lingers by the benches and chairs where they spent summer days in the air conditioning.
             As I wander the aisles between isles of product the din of pop music being blasted on the sound system constantly distracts me. I find myself trying to block out the music because the constantly changing beats throw my thoughts for a loop.

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