Inspire admire aspire.

Eliot Paulina Sumner. Singer/songwriter, I Blame Coco.

Ben Hibon. Animator.

Hilary Duff. Phoenix and conveyor of important messages.

Judy Garland. Actress.

Al Gore. Environmentalist among other things.

Joanne Rowling. Author, genius.

The way of the future.

Anyone who has ever visited Borders' CBD store would know the tall row of shelves on level two that divides the floor in half near the information desk. That entire row is now sitting in pieces on my front verandah.

On the weekend my parents and I visited Borders' Brisbane CBD store for the last time. Along with most of the other Borders stores in Australia, the CBD store is closing down as part of a "more sustainable business model," as worded by Borders themselves. Basically meaning, as everyone knows, that they've gone bust and need to close the majority of their stores in order to compete with the growing online book sale market. 

It was a sorry sight. "70-90% off" posters everywhere, "for sale" stickers on absolutely everything from bookshelves to filing cabinets to broken desk chairs. We pulled shelves out of the bookcases and loaded them onto a flat-tyred trolley (which was also for sale for an ambitious $60) right in the middle of the open store while bewildered customers wandered around unable to believe that an entire rack of Mills and Boone novels could actually be $15. I can't imagine what motivated the staff to even be there, because it certainly wasn't loyalty to a company which, according to the employee we spoke to, was trying to do them out of the rest of their annual pay. 

I remember when Borders opened in Brisbane. It was a big deal - giant American company opens and people worry they'll send smaller, independent bookstores out of business. And yet we all still shopped there, of course, because Borders was big, had a good range of books and stationery and smelled pretty good. And now it's gone.

General opinion blames a surge in online book-shopping for companies like Borders and Angus and Robertson going out of business. People would rather buy from Amazon, eBay or online versions of the aforementioned stores for a cheaper price without having to actually go shopping. Apparently.

I would not. I love going to bookstores. The smell of books, the ability to flip through them and touch them; the impulse buys of stationery and mugs and Harry Potter bookmarks you end up making - it's a whole experience, and while I don't enjoy shopping as a general activity, book-shopping has always been one of my favourite things to do. 

I buy almost all my clothes online, I download music, pre-book movie tickets and use eBay. So I'm by no means a strictly old-school shopper who doesn't buy anything online. But there is something about books that is just so tactile, and something about being in a room full of people who enjoy books as much as I do makes me feel safe and happy. None of which can be derived from this:

It's so sterile, so impersonal. And yes, it's quicker and easier, and probably cheaper, but it's not as rich an experience.

It's just not the same.

Memory of the week.

When I was in year 9 my mum signed me up for acting classes. I had no actual interest in the dramatic arts at all - I suppose I was good at public speaking, but the thought of being thrown into a group of self-obsessed idiots all competing for the roles of lead caveman and woman in a pre-historic adaptation of Romeo and Juliet pretty much horrified me consistently throughout my adolescence. I think she signed me up because I was shy and needed not to be, although the reasoning isn't entirely clear eight or so years down the track. Maybe my parents just wanted me to be famous so I could look after them in their old-age. 

Needless to say I did not enjoy acting class. They made us do activities like staring into the eyes of a random partner non-stop for a whole minute and making videos to our "future selves" with messages of encouragement and inspiration. They went on a lot about individuality, celebrating being "you" and wanted to know an awful lot about us in order to make us feel special and included.

The thing I found really weird about the classes, therefore, was that we all had to wear the same ugly embroidered polo shirt every week. I didn't take this too seriously at first, so one week I showed up wearing my "Big Red Bus" London t-shirt instead. Apparently my surly, non-joiner attitude coupled with a blatant refusal to conform to hideous shirt-wearing was too much for my perky acting coach, who proceeded to approach me and ask if I was "okay." 

As I looked into her face up close for the first time, I remember thinking how different she looked than the way she presented herself to everyone. There were lines around her eyes that made her appear much older than she did from afar, and she wore a searching, almost desperate expression on her face as if she really believed that she could change my life by singling me out in acting class and asking me what was wrong. I wondered in that moment how much effort it took every day to be this person. I wondered if anyone really knew her. I wondered what she'd had for breakfast this morning. She seemed like the kind of person who didn't like to be alone. 

I watched my "past self" video a few years later. Fourteen-year-old me looked nervous, lost and weird. I talked about stupid things like hoping my future self was taller than I was then. There was nothing really indicative of who I was at the time in the video at all, except perhaps the fact that I was wearing a pair of giant purple rave pants. I was trying so hard to complete a task that I did not want to do, in front of people who thought it was the best idea ever, that I ended up sounding like a watered down version of one of them. I was unable to fully commit to inspiring and encouraging my future self and saying shit like "I hope you're following your dreams and going to lots of auditions and not worrying about what the haters say," but equally unable to say what I really wanted to say, which was probably something like "I hope you're not going to this fucking acting class anymore you idiot, what on earth were you thinking?" 

Sidenote.

As may have been obvious from the visual addition to my last post, I really dig the work of German Romantic landscape painter Caspar David Friedrich.

The Three Golden Threads

There were once two lovers; the daughter of a shepherd who lived in a small cottage on a hill, and a young man who was said to be of divine parentage. In a time where Gods and mortals alike would walk the earth, the boy’s immortal father had sent him to a small village to live with his mortal mother. His father believed that here he would learn hard work and sacrifice, and though he toiled ceaselessly and cared for his mother, from the moment he saw his true love, his heart was devoted only to her.

The lovers spent their days walking in the woods together, and their nights sleeping in each other’s arms. If ever the fates chose to separate them, they would write long letters to one another, letters filled with passion and promises of a shared future.

The young man wanted desperately to marry his love, but as he was only half-mortal, he knew he must seek permission from the Gods to marry a mortal woman. And so he began a long journey to the land of his fathers in hopes of securing their blessing.

When he arrived, he found his father delighted with the news of his intention to marry his true love. The old and wise God believed his son had learned the value of hardship and poverty, and had overcome them to find love in a sometimes cruel mortal world. The young man hastened to return to his lover, and marry her as soon as he did so.

On the night he planned to begin his return journey, the young man was approached by his father’s brother, the God of the Underworld and death. The God offered his congratulations to his young nephew, wishing him luck in his imminent marriage. As a token of this congratulatory spirit, the wily God offered his nephew a gift. The young man was told to choose from three glittering lengths of golden thread, to give to his true love to wear on their wedding day. Blinded by happiness, the young man readily accepted the gift, taking the first golden thread gratefully from his uncle’s hand.

But the God of the Underworld was jealous and cunning, and all was not as it seemed. As soon as his hand closed around the golden thread, the young man knew he had been tricked. The three threads offered to him had in fact been the Three Legendary Stories, disguised by his uncle. These three stories, passed between the Gods since the beginning of time, were known to be so beautiful, that they could only be heard by divine ears. If a mortal heard any of the three tales, he or she would surely die. As soon as the golden thread had touched his skin, the young man had been infused with the knowledge of the story, and wept at its staggering beauty.

Being only half-mortal, the young man could survive hearing the story, but he knew the same would not be true of the woman he hoped to marry. At first, the young man believed that his uncle had meant for him to gift the thread to his true love, which would have killed her, and was relieved that he had known of the Legendary Stories and was able to prevent this. But as he quitted the land of the Gods in anger and made his way back to his village, he realised with horror and dread, the true intention of the God of the Underworld.

The young man knew all at once that he could never marry one who had not heard the beautiful story. Just the thought of not sharing it with his lover filled his heart with sadness and despair. He knew that he could not return to the young woman, for he could not trust himself to keep the story from her if he did. He had no choice but to remain in the land of the Gods, doomed to watch over his true love from afar.

The young woman waited in nervous excitement for the return of her beloved. But as day sunk into night, and rose out of it once more, he still had not returned.

The young woman never lost hope that her true love would one day return to her. She never married, or loved again, believing that if she did not see him in this life, they would surely meet in the next. And the young man watched in sadness, as his lover grew old, and finally died, never knowing why he had not returned. 

Rh. April 2011.

[I dreamed this story a couple of weeks ago and wrote it up properly upon the request of someone who liked it. I think I've been taking my Greek Myths class a little too seriously].