Blogger Recognition Award


Thank you to La Vida Raq  for the nomination, and please use this link to her fabulous blog.

Definitely there are rules, one must abide to;
1. Thank the blogger who nominated you and provide a link to his/her site.
2. write a post to show the award.
3. Compose a summary of how your blog started.
4. Give an advice to new bloggers
5. Nominate some bloggers for this award.
6. Inform each nominee and give a link to your post.


My blog started when I opened a bookshop and needed to write about the readers that came to visit me. Readers! The most lively, entertaining and thoughtful population that walks these streets.

To new readers:  Write what is directly in your path and what cannot be left unsaid, pay attention to every silent detail and think about it, no matter how small or powerless or terrifying or unremarkable and see them again.

5  bloggers not to miss:


Timeless Wisdoms

Bitchin’ in the Kitchen

Incredible Minds

Letters to Cicero




We Own Nothing

Image from the Marlborough Gallery .jpg

One man has chosen Journal to the Hebrides by James Boswell, a Folio edition, slipcased and it is very nice. He is pleased with it and pulls out the book to show me that it is still unread. He says that he always liked Boswell. He has a book on Chinese art and one of the journals of Anais Nin. He stacks them up and says; I always find something. When he talks he is always looking at other books, just in case there is one that needs him. Then he laughs out loud and says, I should bloody just go but you know…. then he said: nothing belongs to us, does it, nothing really does. We just interact with it and then we move on and all this just stays here. We don’t even own anything. Then he went out into the outside bright and he was reading the Anais Nin paperback as he walked up the road.

Image from the Marlborough Gallery, New York


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There is a young man who visits here, I don’t know his name. He reads science fiction. He always tells me about the last book he read and how awesome it was and how he can’t believe how good it was and he shakes his head because it is impossible to put into adequacy, the jump from here to Isaac Asimov, to Foundation and everything he has downloaded from that book. Today he went past the window but he didn’t come in. He was eating an icecream and singing out loud…he was singing about something that might keep forever…the same words, over and over as he went by and he was carrying a box of wheatbix on his head and a newspaper on top of that and he was eating the icecream forever. At the kerb, some people were standing by their car and they watched him in complete silence all the way up the footpath and nobody said anything.


Marble sculpture by Anny Wang

The Interview


Yesterday afternoon there was a great crowd outside the bakery – I could hear them but could not see them – it sounded like school children to me. And it was, some of them, all friends, soon came past, eating from paper bags and drinking coke and fluttering by like birds. They glanced briefly through my door as they usually do, looking through the door without seeing it. But this time, one girl indicated the door with her elbow and said to her friends: see that shop there, well I totally went in there once and asked for a job and they were like just FUCK off!

I tried to remember this interview, but I couldn’t. Still, I thought for a while, imagining myself interviewing possible employees for my tiny business and that felt very good! But I would not dismiss any applicants that way, except for Donald Trump.


Sculpture by Dirk de Keyzer

You only need to look with one eye.

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Now I am in Melbourne, in the city centre and in a bookshop myself and there are two notable things. Next to the political histories, two men are arguing over a book and the book is about the history of water, it is called Elixir, A Human History of Water by Brian Fagan. I know because after they had left I went over and looked at the book they had left there. There is trouble because both men are expert water historians and also expert readers and they are interested in everything. They left together, they walked with great energy, their faces, unhappy, showing the strain of maybe having to be interested in everything.

The other thing is in the area for comics in this shop. There are two boys there, about ten years old, they are sitting under the display of comics and reading one each, cross legged. One boy said that he didn’t get it. He didn’t get why they sank everything and how come the two main guys lost all their powers. How come that happened? How come they just didn’t take the rucksack with them the whole time? The other boy said that, no, that didn’t even matter, just keep reading, it’s pretty cool how the map comes back and it all makes sense, it’s pretty cool. What you have to do is only read out of one eye, just shut one eye as well. If you read out of one eye, you will get it and see the main things, you don’t have to see everything, just the main small things that you hardly see, like that door and how it points to something. Then he said: when you get to the end, tell me all the stuff you see because I need to know some more stuff to get the powers back, ok? They agreed. They both looked pretty happy.


The Man Who Reads Sir Walter Scott


Well, he came into the shop and stood bowed in front of the old books, the ones with print that is too small, old novels and histories, poetry and commentary, sets dressed in red and gold and dust and that lean and sink and look out at modern paper with contempt. This man frowned into the shelves and scratched at faded titles and had he had next to his feet, a motorcycle helmet and six cans of beer. He had no hair and he simply blazed with tattoos and earrings. He was looking for Sir Walter Scott. He had completed an arts degree and his thing had been Sir Walter Scott, a great, plain, brilliant hell of a man. He had thrown all his books in the bin and was now visiting every reading joint to get copies again. He didn’t get any from me (he apologized) but the print was just too small and now that his eyes were rooted, he needed the bigger writing, but thanks anyway for having a bookshop!

Noah sees…


Noah sees. When I look after him, I walk along behind, down their acre of land that is becoming garden, and he sees and I follow.

I try to see but I know I don’t see as much as he does. There are those that see and those that do. I do things. I can see that Noah is a seer and I cannot, even now, see what he at 18 months can see, those enormous populous landscapes, stitched with the things that matter and on which he does not need to comment. This leaves room to see more. Noah scents the air and points to things. He indicates grasses and sounds and a cardboard box. He stares at the compost. He announces news in complex breathy melodies that I cannot interpret. Yet.

He breaks into a galloping, gumboot run, suddenly.

He plods toward projects and completes them. He regards his mewling new born brother with a frown, with indifference, with a proffered infant kiss of deliberate gentleness on the newborn, unprotected head.

He hurls a flat football from the shed and kicks out twice and raises both arms in the air, demonstrating a possible prior knowledge of this resource. He watches motionless, his young mother carrying things through the garden, through the air, through his life and he downloads dizzying heights of safety, security, possibility and early summer.

Noah examines both feet for a long time. He wants to lift them both and see underneath but cannot engineer the information for this feat just yet.

He hears on the breeze a certain note and tone, a cadence, a perfect chord, possibly an entire opera of excessive meaning. It is the voice of his father who is building a fence with his father, a fence to keep wandering infants from washing onto the roadway. He launches into a furious rocking gait down a lane that only he can see, toward the bay of tools, wood, the forbidden, the dangerous and he pushes into new strength and new speed and I must hurry behind and catch and foil the determination with care, with care, with care, with love, with pride.


Taylor and Jake

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…are the remarkable remarkables. They heave the door open and gust through, no time for greetings. Taylor considers all books, particularly horse books, Jake considers large books, particularly (today), books about The French Revolution or Madam Pompadour. They sail back and forth in the wind, hailing Grandma who waits on the beach and who greets all interests, all choices, as fine and wise. And so there is no place in literature where these children will not venture, and no shape, proportion, heft, vintage or bay that will stay unexplored. When they call out from another room, they call from far away, because they are. They are wise. They read what they want to read and reject what they don’t. The spread the books out and announce each title kindly for me. Their faces are lit lanterns.



All day Sunday and no news.

Everyone who visits the shop today must stand and listen to my news; that there is no news. One couple went up Jeff’s Books and told Caitlin that there is no real news. Nevertheless, Caitlin offers to help me out when there is news. But still there is no news.

More visitors came in after lunch and asked me for this book and that book but I didn’t help them. I just told them my lack of news. One old lady forgot about the books she wanted and weighed in with enthusiasm. She applied consolation, saying that babies come when they want and never before.

Finn William Hood came in at 8.01 pm on Sunday night just when he wanted to, small as a dot and caught by his parents and swooped into a family of three, now four.

I visited and held the smallness and the folded up boneless limbs and the soft womb position they still assume.  He drinks with eyes open and eyes shut, eyes flickering with living and milk and noise falling everywhere, Noah, still a baby and now a brother, leaning over and tapping gently the forehead and their infant eyes meeting for a fleeting, inerasable portion of one second, and then Finn asleep again.


Photography by Elsa Hood