I could tell my mom was uneasy when I told her I was looking at a Shel Silverstein book. We were both living with my grandmother at the time. My music collection included The Field’s album From Here We Go Sublime and Throwing Muses’ album Limbo, and my mom’s boyfriend would describe me as “that Socrates-lookin’ dude.”
And yeah, I wouldn’t say I got too much out of Shel Silverstein, at least compared to like Celine, out of whom I got an invincible eye glint which once almost caused my boss to send me home early from work.
But over and over I see it: up pop pop-up books. Children’s books. They were down in Asheville, North Carolina big time, a community of a high prevalence of moms with those baby-carriers in drug and grocery stores. And I’d even peruse them, trying to kill time before going to ABC for a Jalapeno IPA. And there it was: one of them was by e.e. cummings, a favorite poet of mine. I didn’t notice whether any of the other ones were also by poets, but I’m sure some of them were.
In my hometown I read, one time, in a volunteer opportunity, to a class of kindergarteners, and opening up a lot of those books, I got the overwhelming feeling that as a little tot I’d read, and looked at pictures, a lot more than I thought I had. Some of those images, like the “red light green light,” and “Swimmy,” were irreversibly ingrained in my psyche. And it’s just interesting to think about, because little kids can’t go online by themselves, so their literature will always materialize in book form — it’ll always be big and colorful. So it’s possible that, unlike with basically anything else, from food, to music, to basic looks of their surroundings, when it comes to their illustrated, bound publications, they’re actually getting the same exact experience I did when I was young.
As an adult, I find it depressing that oftentimes I want to research a subject, like maybe a mythological figure like Marathon or something, and all of the books available are in the juvenile section. And then I feel stupid going in there, ducking my head down, talking to the overly nice librarians, and making out with this big ol’ goofy thing. But eh, it can be worth it, I guess. As our race continues to precipitate, and we logically quell our own misgivings with intentional, psychosocial baths of light and color, it seems that we have stumbled upon at least one indefatigable industry whose only purpose is diversion, but whose diversion is a wholesome one. I look at the themes still prevalent in kids’ books — animals, and going to the bathroom. Inescapable things of existence. The objectives are simple, and of course all phases of life involve preparation and strategizing, but I guess I can’t help getting jealous when in looking at this particular phase involving the youngsters around, I see that it never changes.