Sunday, July 8, 2012

Art Feature: It Will Never Work

you can spill them on the table,
on the counter,
on the floor...
you can spill them where you care to,
I won't clean them up anymore.

you can leave them there to rot,
to compost,
or to mold,
you can leave them there forever,
but this is really getting old.

you can try to run away from me,
push away,
leave me alone.
you can try to beat the best of me,
but you'll never take my home.
"It Will Never Work," available on deviantArt

 Many have tried. Many have failed.

You can never take my home. I imagine, many people, when asked "where do you live" or "where do you consider home," will reply with a physical location, a house, a building, a structure, even a hole in the ground. I respect all those answers, but they're not for me.

I live in my head and in the space between pages. Unless the book you've last held in your hands was numbered against normal English custom, the odd numbered pages fall on the right, and the even numbered pages fall on the right. Between the odd and even pages (as opposed to an even and then an odd), is where you find the book's soul.

This metaphor breaks down with digital copies, but I'd be hard pressed to argue that a digital book has as much soul as a physically bound sheaf of pages. My digital copies don't fall open to favored passages when set on their spine. My digital copies don't get "broken-in;" the pages don't turn more easily the more I read it, the binding doesn't crease or break.

You can try to take my home, but as long as I have my head, my heart, my willingness to go on, you will never succeed.

It reminds me of the moment in Shawshank Redemption (I think I've referenced this before, and probably will again) when Andy talks about his time in the hole being nothing, since he has all the music in his head, and he can listen to it all he wants, no need to tote the record player along with him.

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