My vicarious trot..
Shopping for the centenary issue of the Granta, I became acutely aware of the oxymoron my life has become. Wrapped with immaculate care in a loose translucent cover – an added extra not found otherwise and quite the proclamation of the exclusivity of this epic edition, I thumbed through the bible with meticulous care.
With only three copies readily obtainable, I sifted vigilantly though what presented me with my options. The first one was grimy in it that the cover had fallen victim to the shelf trauma that books are normally subjected to in retail outlets around the world. A smear of the colour that could best be described as a cross between a lizard and a rat – I ostensibly placed the book to its original location on the shelf that asserted its subject – anthropological writing.
The second copy seemed more affable, smiling with near blinding whiteness I felt myself warm up to this beauty in the flash of an eye. And the bond deepened until- out from the farthest corner of my eye, I noticed a tear. A tear so treacherous and miniscule in its beginnings – it’d only be a matter of time before it ripped through the plaster rendering it permanently damaged. The perfidy avoided, I now had only one other that loomed large before me.
I must add here – it isn’t in my nature to take chances. I’m the visionary of caution and plan B’s and often wonder what people think of the emails I write them. That is my level of commitment where watchfulness is concerned.
Keeling under the weight of what will forever change the face of history should I happen to callously purchase a tarnished version of literary cerebellum, I started to, with deliberate nonchalance, twirl the book in my trembling hands. She looked fearful, knowing well that some days this twain don’t meet. The once-over now complete, I inspected the cover with the precision of one threading a needle.
I hadn’t noticed it then, but my brow was beaded with sweat which is uncanny given that I was at the foremost temple of reading in my city which is often mistaken for Siberia by ignoramus flunkies. The decision that rested on my frozen shoulders was one of enormous responsibility. I’d taken an oath to serve my shelf well – I’ve been duty-bound since.
Satisfied with the assessment of its cover, I opened the book to reveal its (print moon-lighting as) content. Deep-diving into prose which is hypnotically reminiscent of writing lingering within the depths of my conscience is a sport I indulge in frequently. It’s a moment when oestrogen starts pumping rather voraciously rendering me incapable of any progress.
The European gentleman positioned right next to me smiled absentmindedly at the mountain of paper I held in my lugubrious arms. Tree carcass covered my magnanimous self and I was reminded of the dressing down that awaited me at that place I call home.
Examining the book one last time, checking for dog ears and a wrecked spine but finding none, this copy had passed the litmus and landed momentarily in my arms – until it was clear to every man, woman and child that Guinness wasn’t yet an ambition I coveted.
The musty smell of print on paper is my aphrodisiac which I administer to my senses multiple number of times. I’m a horny, horny woman – a book slut. My wanton-ness of character is oft seen on display over the weekends or late in the evening on weekdays. It is my morphine for the pain I inflict on others and myself.
The prescription unlimited, I’m allowed by my explicit conscience, the hoarding of Grantagra – assured to help the flaccid, the barren and the linguistically impotent.
To my hundredth year old
Your beauty abounds and holds me cuckold
In my strife for solace and pleasure that’s bold
Your art work seductive
Ivory pages laden with gold
Tales and anecdotes that need to be told
Our torrid romance knows not a boundary
Nothing to contain my deep seated lust
For words engraved in your sexy folds
Promise me you will always remain my pride
Our consummation a given,
I’ll remain forever your dysfunctional bride
I shall miss you so much for when I’m dead
The loveliest of miles
Your hard-body full of verve in our marque’d bed.
My everlasting lover
Remember when I’m dead
You will remain alive forever, in my heart and in my head..
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