From the Inkwell, From the Vein.....

Where faith once walked, and angels wept, the city dark, unyielding. Where love once dreamt, of sweet drugs' days, the night-time sky, unending. The fall of man, the wake of flame, the loss of hope, descending. The whispered breath, the mortal frail, the timid soul, relenting.                                                                                                            ---e.a.s. demers

"Stupid Smelly Bus"!!! We were honored to have our bookstore be the last stop on this year's 10th anniversary tour of Junie B. Jones and her Stupid Smelly Bus!! Junie B. (the B. stands for Beatrice, but she doesn't like Beatrice, so it's just B., please) Jones and her bus driver, Mr. Woo, made a special stop at our store this afternoon for a live performance and a book-stamping! Junie B. and her cymbals The number of Junie B. Jones fans that poured into our store on a hot summer Saturday, when they could have been swimming or otherwise "hanging out", was staggering. We are never more surprised, thrilled, excited and in awe than when a throng of children are teetering restlessly for their favorite BOOK character to come and meet them. Junie B. has been entertaining kids and their parents since '92 and the excitement her series has garnered, only seems to grow year after year. Junie B. tells Mr. Woo what she was thankful for on Thank

So, I told myself I wasn't going to broach the subject of Paula Deen and her recent admission to using racial slurs. I told myself I would just stir things up that are already stirred up, and probably make myself unreasonably angry to boot. But, this is one of those situations that everybody has an opinion about--- regardless of what "truth" they know about the matter. This lawsuit has actually been on the books for awhile now, concerning one former General Manager and her complaints about the working environment afforded to her at Paula's and her brother's restaurant. Having read an online copy of the manager's complaint filed against Paula Deen, I agree, that if what the General Manager has illustrated is true, then yes, then there is a legitimate case of discrimination/harassment. And, yes, I know Paula Deen can be named a responsible party in the hostile work environment, as she holds ownership-- even if the specific culprit being referred to is her

I don't know of anyone who isn't in some way moved by music (and its numerous derivations). It's hypnotic and all-consuming, if we're in the right frame of mind and the right piece is playing. Even those with less-than-functional hearing can still be moved and soothed by the steady thrum and vibrations that music provides. Place your hand on a throbbing speaker, eyes closed and mind clear, and you'll find your heartbeat slowing--- even if it's a fast-paced, eardrum-piercer pounding through the air. It's the regularity of rhythm, much like the beating of a parent's heart, the pulse of their breathing, that soothed us during times of stress when we were infants. Music is a language that needs no translation. It affects/changes our mood, just because it's there...just because it struck something deep inside us. We are at once invigorated, incensed or inspired. We become melancholy or morose. Our sympathies are wrung from inside. Our passions are i

I chanced to walk in shadow,  when the fall of night first came, I didn't know from whence, came the sounding of my name. My breath caught as whispers reached me, soft sounds trailing in my wake, my pace, in fear, did quicken, refuge nearly passed in haste.  The shadows know the darkness, its emptiness, all too well, they seek your warmth and presence, the cold tendrils of night to quell. I let slip from deepest mem'ry, how the shadows hold, their clutch unyielding, hear my words and seek them not, this message, your future shielding.  When the evening shadows call to you, walk quickly on without a glance, they've come to keep you company, to show you how they dance. They hold your name in whispers,  hushed tones sighing into night, they hold your dreams in pieces, dotting midnight skies alight. The stars shine bright with stolen warmth,  their light, all captured dreams and sighs, of those who failed to heed

Overheard a conversation in the bookstore the other evening between 2 twenty-something women as they walked through the store--- "I should really get my notes out again....I need to finish that book I was working on." The first woman commented. "Yeah," her companion added, "it ain't that hard to write a book." ***** Not sure how I would have responded if that conversation had been directed at me. As it was, I did everything I could to not laugh outright... didn't really need them upset because I was eavesdropping--- REALLY didn't need them thinking I was unhinged if they mistook my laughter (as there was no one near me) as a failing of my own sanity, however close to the truth that might be. Yes, I had to admit to myself, her companion was right--- "it ain't that hard to write a book." Truthfully, it doesn't take anything to plop a bunch of words on paper, finish the collection with "The End" and call

Just a few hours after we opened the bookstore yesterday, we got confirmation that Vince Flynn had passed away from prostate cancer... he was 47. I was surprised by the announcement since I was unaware he'd been sick and saddened because he was so young. I can't honestly say I've read anything he's written (his genre of choice isn't one I gravitate toward), but, his is a name I'm familiar with, so his passing did impact me. It's strange how we are affected by the passing of people we "know"--- whether actors or sports stars. We know their names, we've watched their careers, we've learned their histories--- and apart from actually meeting them, we feel we are an integral part of their lives...they're definitely an integral part of our own lives. Hours after the announcement, one of our regular customers walked through the store--- this is a man I've seen, nearly every day, for the past three years--- he approached me and as he p

All the pretty, dead things, Standing in a row, Are speaking, oh so quietly, Of things, you ought to know. Their lidless eyes see deep inside, Picking out what you’d rather keep hidden. Their lipless grins twist and gnash, Bringing all darkest thoughts, unbidden. Their skinless bones knock and shake, Scratching out death’s eerie laugh. You’ll never be free from their fingerless grasp, Don’t think they’ll let you pass. Every morning you wake,  Though your bones all still hold flesh, You move ever closer, To days of eternal unrest. Practice now, your lidless stares,  Be ready when they come. Your place they’ll hold, among their ranks, When your living days are done.                                                                                                            ---e.a.s. demers