When I was a kid, we’d go to the library once a week, as a family; me, my older sister (for awhile, both of my sisters before the oldest got too old to think it was cool), and both my parents. It was something I looked forward to intensely, this weekly pilgrimage en masse; no matter what else might have been going on in my life, it was always a highlight of the week — a chance to find new things, new words and new worlds, and new thoughts to go inside my head.
I had favorite books I’d return to time after time, of course, but more than that, I had favorite areas of the library where I’d find new things every single week; even though I’ve not been there for more than 30 years, I could still draw you a detailed map of where you could find books about movies and TV shows — making-of type things, that I was obsessed with — or the books about art, whether it was art history or how-tos. I could take you to the exact shelf where Jonathan Carroll’s books were, which I returned to time after time; I could tell you where the music section was, and even more than that, where you could find the cool and weird music if you really wanted it.
(A sudden reminder how old I am; I can remember when the music section was primarily made up of vinyl. Not even cassettes — vinyl.)
I was in love with that library. It was one of my favorite places in the world when I lived in my hometown, somewhere that felt safe and exciting at once; somewhere that I felt safe to be myself, even when I didn’t know who that was. I loved it so much that, when I was back in my hometown last year, I went all the way to the walkway leading to the library, but daren’t walk up to the doors themselves. I knew that it would have changed from the way it was when I was a kid — it should, that was more than three decades ago — and, at the same time, I knew that it would break my heart to see it any different, even after all this time.