The Codes of Spines

I have been reading, obsessively.

Latin American theater, theory and analysis of theater, and fabulously indulgent tales of gumshoe mishaps and glory.

La noche de los asesinos, José Triana.
Vejigantes, Francisco Arriví.
Decir Sí, Griselda Gambaro.
The Theater and its Double, Antonin Artaud.
Books 1-3 of the 21 book Stephanie Plum series by Janet Evanovich.

I went to the library on Friday in hopes that Havana Blue, by Leonardo Padura Fuentes, had arrived from the library it was shipped from.  The man at the Information Desk told me I had no such luck and asked me if I had been notified that it would be there.

"No," I said, "I had seen that it was shipped a few days ago and thought I'd ask since I was here.  I'm being a bit of a book stalker."

"As well you should be." the man replied, and smiled.

I smiled back.

The secret language of library workers will always make me feel that I am part of the most glamorous and unturned rock in the world.

(pause)

I feel directed.

Clear.

Things that felt uncertain are shedding their ambiguity. Fool's gold is being revealed; rusted pennies are showing the worth in their years.

Come with me.

I have a tale to tell you.

I have a feeling

you have one to tell me as well.

I could only be so lucky

but chances are

I will be.


-k.

(image: by Nancy Wilde via blackshivers Tumblr)