Dripping with the Learned Mastery of the Avant-Garde Brain

Let's not dwell upon the necessity of introduction. Not because I feel like it is unnecessary, but primarily because I feel it is as bland for you to read as it is tedious for me to write.

For me, reading is an integral part of vacation. While thinking back to my favorite vacations, or at least the memorable ones, I always remember the highlights in reference to the book I was reading at the time.

I saw Arlington Cemetery just after the young ingenue discovers the identity of the ghost plaguing her home. I sat on the beach in Mexico while that little brat from Atonement forced her cousins into that ridiculous play. (Thus illustrating how reading a book in the wrong setting can destroy it forever) The National Cheerleading Competition in Florida was home to my discovery of the French Revolution through the eyes of a man imprisoned for stealing a loaf of bread.

Choosing the right book is paramount. Not only for personal enjoyment, but because people judge you on it. Who hasn't sat poolside and pretended to read while glancing over their own book to make internal commentary on those around them? The lonesome housewife reading some trashy romance novel while taking quick, flirtatious peeks at the boisterous, rowdy twenty-somethings --dreaming that the words on the page might float into reality. The "supermom" who picked up the lastest Oprah book of the week because having her own taste in books would take up too much of her time. The ditsy buxom babe who rarely reads, but when she does picks up the latest (photo heavy) "memoir" from some equally buxom "reality star". Though I suspect the most effective use of the book is to hide her overly-bronzed, cancer-taunting face from the sun. Then of course, there is the middle-aged tamed stallion, the once macho man who has since resigned to being the hero of his family. (This I do not find nearly as pathetic as that sentence seemed--I find it admirable, though a "type" nonetheless) His book of choice? A How-to or Do-it-yourself: From Computers to Beating Alcoholism they are constantly seeking to exert their pent-up power over something. Of course there are the overworked professionals seeking distraction in their thrillers and mysteries, though often they choose predictable and contrived stories whose words won't tire their typically overstimulated minds. An old couple, sitting in the shade reading the same book, something inspirational and peaceful. At some point one would lean over and kiss the other on the cheek or forehead. The kind of kiss that says they've shared a lifetime together and given the choice, they'd share a million lifetimes together.

Then, there are the people like me, probably pseudo-intellectual elitists who completely overthink their book choices and pick obscure, classic, or other pseudo-intellectual works in order to dodge the judgment of their peers. And while we elitist bastards love reading and genuinely enjoy the witticisms of the cynical memoir, and the melodic words of James Joyce, or the thrill of discovering an "unknown" writer, the only thing better than that would be appearing as though our literary tastes are beyond reproach, and to the worst of the elitists--as though the scholarly circle that we inhabit could never be breached by the other, average peoples who occupy the poolside. All the while, hidden deep within the confines of our oversized beach bag is some massively popular New York Times Bestseller...and perhaps, if we feel daring, we will hide our new James Patterson into the book jacket of something "dripping with the learned mastery of the avant-garde brain". You may be relieved to find out that if I am not as mild a member of this category as I believe, at least I am probably, or possibly, more (slightly?) self-aware than my pompous companions.

Choosing a book is more than just something to pass the time. While some people live with a soundtrack to their life, the songs that bring them back, for me, its been the books. Not just for vacations, but for every pivotal moment in my life. The literary stories are the subtext, the characters are my companions, the authors are my mentors. After reading a book that really resonates I can hear the narrator in my head, as though they are narrating my life. My thought pattern may even begin to mirror the cadence of the book. And it sounds crazy, but it is exhilarating. The books are a second home, an escape but a familiar one at that. Nothing smells as brilliant and enticing as the pages of a book. Closing one can be as sad as a friend moving away, and then reading it again, whether years, months or days later, you meet again. And the reunion is sweet and you learn things about them and yourself that you never knew before.

It is the passion I have for reading that mourns the production that goes along with the critique of the literary desires of others. But it is part of the fun. The lonely housewife, I don't look down on her, I wonder about her. I try to consider her life-- Does she have children? As the C-section scar pokes out beneath her tankini, I conclude yes. Do they look like her? I could see them now, maybe twins--a boy and a girl-- dark hair with a hint of red, light skin. Maybe their father has green eyes, that would look beautiful against the color of their hair. Maybe their father is gone. Did he leave them? Maybe that explains the sadness and longing. Maybe he died. I wonder if he was the kind of man who would have read a how-to or do-it-yourself. I bet when she was pregnant and the doctor told them they were having twins he went right out and bought a how-to-raise-twins book. Yes, he would have. When they were born he would have looked into their green eyes and thought that he would do anything for them. Maybe the housewife sees the overly-attractive busty woman in the ittybittybikini as well and wonders about her--Does she look like her daughter? Does she remind her of herself before the husband and the kids and the minivan? Is there a glimmer of jealousy in her eyes, or perhaps more of a maternal instinct? Maybe she sees her and projects the image of the skank her husband ran off with, if that had been the case. A man approaches the housewife and they kiss lovelessly on the lips. An obligation rather than a profession of caring--nothing more than a practiced habit. Does she look at the aged lovers and resent them? Or does she see a future without the worry of kids where, just maybe, the stresses of the present fade into nothingness and the companionship rises again to the forefront. As I continue to stare, the housewife and I make unintentional eye contact and I quickly avert my gaze, as does she. I can't help but wonder what she was thinking when she looked at me.

The search continues not for A book, but THE book. The companion to my travels. Who will explore the streets of Berlin with me? Who will rock me to sleep in the noisy hostels of Europe? Who will laugh (at or with) me as I struggle through Spanish in Spain? Who will marvel with me at the exotic delights of Morocco? As of now, I have no such companion. But I have a gift card, and a little free time, and I feel a familiar optimism run through my veins. A new book awaits- a new romance, a new friend, a new mystery, and an untold number of new revelations.

Oh, the journey that awaits.