Liberated from my heavy pack by the nice folks at the desk, I squirm, poke, lean, winnow, burrow, stretch, and slide between the towering stacks of words. Like the earthworms in my garden, I am aerating these dusty shelves.

I love used bookstores. The higher the ceilings, the narrower the walking space, the more cryptic the organization, the more my hands itch to caress every spine; my fingers are like a lover’s, tracing each vertebra. If only I could live within these pages, pull out my tent and stake it up among the words like punctuation, taking shelter among the disintegrating literary histories of strangers.

Yesterday I took a small break from writing to wander over to MacLeod’s Books. While I was taking photos of the 5pm light stretching across my favorite series of spines–the old children’s serials like “Girls’ Adventure Series”–I looked up to see this:

Justin and I stopped in at Rowell’s gallery in Bishop, California on our summer-long drive to Vancouver two years ago. As we toured the photographs, Justin narrated each one: when and where it was taken, the super-human feats Rowell performed to see just the right light from just the right angle.

When I arrived home with this book yesterday, I learned that these very pages were where those stories were printed. Apparently teenage-Justin had confiscated this book from a friend years ago, and pored over it while first learning photography. I can see it’s influence.

“Someone picked this up from their collection and thought, ‘I need to get rid of this.’ ? !” He was astounded.

Selling such a tome was a crime in the eyes of my favorite mountain photographer, but he’s smitten with his new possession. Books might just be my favorite small things. Books and cookies. I do love cookies.