Feels like sacrilege

For those of you who don't know, the Borders bookstore here in town is closing.  It happens to be my favorite book store. For a year, I worked at a restaurant in the same parking lot. Often, after work, I would trudge across the parking lot, immerse my fry-oil, burger scented soul in the soothing smell of books and relax in the library-like atmosphere.

Call me melodramatic, nerdy, or lame if you like, but throughout my life, bookstores have been a sanctuary to me.  This is probably because libraries have always been so far away. This bookstore, in particular, walking distance from the chaos of life, was my main sanctuary.  Even though I no longer work in the same shopping center, on days when have I felt extremely burdened, I might have been found meandering through the aisles of books, where music plays softly in the background, people use hushed voices, every shelf is packed full of books in an orderly manner, cushioned seats are placed haphazardly through the store, the essence of coffee lingers in the background adding spice to the friendly scent of pages and glue, nobody looks at me strangely if I spend hours there, people rarely break through my thoughts for conversation, and when they do, the conversation is hushed, brief, and purposeful.

Finding myself in the same parking lot, with no agenda, I followed the pull to my bookstore, even though I knew it was liquidating.  Before I even entered the store, I recognized a mayday cry in my soul.  People were flooding in like seagulls to a burger shack.  Bright red, orange, and yellow signs declared that "Everything must go!"  I disregarded the warning signs, and entered anyway.

People rummaged through bookshelves like they were at a yard sale...worse: an estate sale. There were shelves that were completely stripped of their books, merchandise strewn across the floor. Everybody was hustling through like it was a competition. Nobody used a library voice as they called back and forth about this deal or that.  People were wishing for shopping carts as they half-glanced at the covers of book and tossed them into their piles to purchase.  The obnoxious liquidation signs were overwhelming(hence the reason I can have a gadzillion perspective shots on signs all saying the same thing). Books were no longer strictly in their sections, but mashed together with nearby sections as shelves started looking more bare.

It felt so very wrong just watching.  Can I call the cops to report a riot? A grave robbing? It was like witnessing a temple raid.  It felt like at any moment, someone would commit some act of book sacrilege, maybe tear out a page of Victor Hugo to dispose of their bubble gum.

I know, I am being dramatic. To most of the world, it is just another business in decline. You will be happy to know that my inner turmoil did not reflect in my outward actions as I meandered, pretending the noisy, chaotic opportunists weren't ransacking my sanctuary. Honest: I did not lay down on the floor and cry, and I did not hit any one.

I selected two books for myself, according to my normal rules (Rule of Being Caitlin, #34: If at all possible, I should manage to leave the bookstore without spending more than $15, with a forgiveness clause of $2 for tax, or if I really want it), and got in line.

The line was delayed for a miserably long time by--I kid you not-- a woman trying to haggle better prices for her discounted items.  Bakersfield, is there NOTHING sacred?


That's all. I just needed to bemoan the thrashing and destruction of a building that I have a sentimental(but, thankfully, not a monetary) investment in.

Maybe it is wrong to find such solace in a bookstore. You might think that a Christian should not seek spiritual downtime in a business establishment. Maybe, but I don't think finding a peaceful place--even if it is in a business-- is wrong. The only thing I see wrong in finding a sanctuary in a bookstore is this: you never know when the economy will collapse and kill it, and then invite the vultures to pick it apart.

And so, my fellow book lovers and Borders meanderers, if you understand my sadness, feel free to have a proper moment of silence with me.

Farewell, dear Bakersfield Borders. Barnes and Noble will never truly be able to fill your space.