to be sorted later #4
in which it's pretty amazing I never got kicked out of a bookstore with these antics
I miss the magazine racks. Back when I lived in Bloomington, IN, close by a Borders (RIP), when I’d go in, I’d always first stop by the magazine rack, to check if they had the latest copy of Bitch Magazine (RIP) on display.
No matter that I was a subscriber already. That was not the point. When I’d find it, I’d move it to the front of the “Women’s Interest” section. If I was feeling particularly feisty, and if stock was looking good, I’d hide a couple more among the bridal magazines, and laugh, quietly, at my work. If it wasn’t in stock, I’d fume, quietly, then go back a week or two later, to check again. Repeat.
Historically, I make excellent use of my downtime.
I told no one about this little habit of mine, because why would I? In fact, I’d nearly forgotten about it myself until now.
When I wasn’t busy with this critical task, I was also searching for something as I looked through the magazines, in my yearning to find some type of guidebook that would help me with my other quiet quest — to become a writer. On the racks, I found Writer’s Digest, Poets & Writers, and I discovered The Paris Review.
After many years of treating myself to copies of it now and again when I’d visit the magazine racks — first at that Borders in Bloomington, then the Borders on State Street, then the Barnes & Noble — at last, in the spring of 2020, I subscribed, as a birthday gift to myself. What a bewildering birthday that was, newly on lockdown in my apartment, already feeling rather alone in the world, having no idea how much I’d lean on that gift in the year(s) to come.
Magazines, literary journals, glossies — I love them all. My favorite place to read The New Yorker is on a plane. My favorite place to read Vanity Fair is from my bed. My favorite place to read Whalebone is on my couch. My favorite place to read Bitch was anywhere, but mostly while alone in public.
Come over, and you’ll find stacks of magazines in my living room — and if it’s been a good weekend, in multiple piles on the couch — the “to read” pile, the finished pile, and the “open to that one particular story I still need to read” pile.
Now that I think of it, magazines might be my greatest love. Right now I’m in the middle of Barbra dishing about The Way We Were.
Stacks and stacks of magazines! (I assume the above made that pretty clear?) I made some progress over the long weekend, but I’ve got to finish that Barbra Streisand excerpt, start the Oxford American “Ballads” Issue, and …
My year-end lists. This year: best of books, movies, music, album art! I love a year-end list, from crafting my personal favorites to swapping lists to sorting through all the many, many more. (It’s already begun.)
A new commitment. Looks like I’m reading War and Peace in 2024! I think I’ve talked my brother into it. Wanna join us?
“I think there’s something interesting about reality, the things people really say. I don’t think I’ve ever intentionally changed something someone said.”
— Sharon Olds, The Art Of Poetry No. 114, The Paris Review
previously:
to be sorted later #3
I’ve been on a path this week, ever since discovering Juanita McNeely existed at the same moment I learned of her death. In my notebook, I wrote down: Juanita, I’m sorry / I’m late to the party blood, horses, women’s bodies, sex — duh! Joan Semmel — my quest