Read When The Birds Fall Silent :: Entry No. 1

01.03

Forgive me, dear Mother, for I am not sorry.

Here I am, penning my first entry in a diary you've given me that works both as a perfunctory Christmas gift and as a begrudging parting gift. Yes, I know it's begrudging, because you haven't stopped nagging me ever since helping me settle in my apartment here in the city.

I'm fine, Mother, really. Have you forgotten I've lived alone a few times before? I know those were student exchanges but it's the same thing, isn't it? Just that, now, I'm back in my home country, but not specifically home with you and Father.

Maybe that's why the idea of me living near, but away from, home is irreconcilable to the both of you. Or maybe it was my reasoning that I needed to be by myself or else I'll go crazy in this economy was what made you iffy.

Nonetheless, let me tell you all the things I want to tell you, but couldn't, in the form of diary entries. I mean, my therapist told me it would be a good exercise to try, so why not, right?

-- Ah, right. Yes. Dear Mother, I've gone to therapy.

Now, before you tell me all that b.s. about having public medical records -- I really don't care at this point. I'd happily choose to be scorned by big corporations for being a little bit kooky in the head than to live more days being stuck in bed with my mind in an endless loop from moonrise to sundown the next day.

Oh, if you could read what I just wrote down, I'm sure you'll say "That's nothing a walk and some fresh air can't fix."

Fine, then, let me indulge you. Know that I went out for a walk just to get some fresh air -- and went back to the apartment with a shining new opportunity.

Picture this for me, would you? A few minutes from the apartment, and leading all the way to a roundabout that branches into three different directions, is the main road to the city. Keep heading down toward the city center. After a few minutes, turn right from the main road, and go down a narrow street to your immediate left.

There sits a bookstore, hidden at first glance, but in no way a secret.

There are no sign boards bearing its name, no arrows pointing to the door; merely a wooden sign bolted to the wall, where one can see the crude image of a crow painted bright red, still visible among the overgrowing ivy.

You know me and my bookish tendencies. I went in, fully intending to see a pristine bookstore, like the ones in malls or the organized haven in the city center.

What I found was chaos.

The shop itself was dark, and maybe a tad bit cramped. Oh, but the shelves, the shelves! All filled to the brim, bursting with tomes upon tomes. Small pocketbooks, thin magazines in dusty plastic jackets, thick volumes with yellowing pages. Assorted knick-knacks that had no rhyme or reason in between the shelves: to your left, a porcelain owl on top of a bunch of poetry books, and to your right, a plastic cockroach toy right beside the Kafkas. There're stairs leading up to a second floor (but that's restricted to admin and staff, I'm guessing?) and right beneath it are stacks on stacks of old VHS tapes that have definitely seen better days.

Oh, Mother, it was perfect.

I can't even begin to explain the amount of wondrous joy I've experienced. I wanted to just sit there among the disorganized piles and just be, because at first glance it all didn't make sense. But once you sit there, you get the feeling that it's not supposed to.

Sifting through the piles kept me surprised and intrigued. One minute, I'm holding up a battered hardbound with the gold letters fading from cover; the next, I've discovered a lesser-known book by William Burroughs. I haven't had this much fun since the time you took me to Shakespeare & Co. in Paris. It's a little like that, but a tad more chaotic, with a lot more books occupying a smaller space. It's got its own charms, I suppose.

I won't tell you most of the details of my journey through wonder, amusement, and adoration for this little pocket of the city that I have fallen through, like a rabbit hole in Alice in Wonderland. I won't tell you how much I squealed over a rare paperback copy of a book that I thought I would never get my hands on in this country. I won't tell you how many hours I spent there, because to be honest, I don't know how long I've been there, anyway.

All I know was that the sun had already long set by the time I finally stood up from where I had settled, touting three choice paperbacks, with covers worn and spines battered, off to the small and crowded counter.

That's when I saw the small, "we are hiring" notice, in a tight scrawl, hastily pasted on an acrylic stand.

I asked some questions. They asked some back. At some point the man at the counter excused himself and went upstairs to get the owner of the shop, who looked disgrunted at being disturbed. His is a name that I recognize, but I don't know from where, exactly. His lined face lights up when he hears about me applying, but it's not necessarily in a good way, at first.

"This is not your ordinary bookshop," he tells me, with the candor and gravitas of a man who has seen wars. "This is the heart of a movement that tries to further the reach of books -- books that speak to the heart, books that make your blood sing."

I could see his seriousness. Even when his shopkeep, the man who had been manning the counter a few minutes ago, was scrolling on the phone with his back to the shelf, looking bored. As if he had heard this spiel a hundred times before.

I asked him if the shop was revolutionary.

"Culturally, maybe."

Was it illicit? Illegal?

"It's toe-ing the line," the shopkeep answers before the owner could, bemused, which earns him a reproachful look.

Then why does the shop have no name on the front? Just a symbol of a red crow?

"Even the red feels garish." I had to say it. "Why would a shop have that instead of a name?"

At this, the owner grins. "Why do you think?"

I didn't expect that at all. But even then, I already had an answer at the tip of my tongue. Half-formed ideas falling from my lips, disjointed, in the hopes of making sense.

"You say this shop is the heart of a literary movement," I say slowly. "That this is a legitimate business, but it is revolutionary. An enfant terrible amongst the frosted windows of bookstore chains across the country."

"Correct."

"The crow is hidden. But it's in a shade of bright red that's hard to ignore." And then I look at both the owner and the shopkeep. "Something that doesn't need to be announced; just there to be acknowledged. There to be known."

"That's it, precisely," the owner praises, grinning like a mentor would to his protegée. "You see, in this part of the city, the birds are loud, they are angry. Here, they are given the freedom to speak whatever's in their head. Here, they will not be silenced."

I didn't know what to answer to that. But it resonated with something in me, the stirrings of which I've yet to begin to comprehend.

Then, the owner ducks into a cramped office, yet again overflowing with books but of a more personal, curated taste. He comes back after a few minutes with a small paperback, with his name on the cover and the title page signed.

He dismissed me with a wink, handing me the book, and a "See you on Monday."

Dear Mother, forgive me. I know just how badly you'd react knowing that I've inadvertently signed myself up to working in a bookshop. But... I don't know how to tell you this. I don't know how to tell you what compels me to go back.

When I stepped out of that shop, the night sky was not barren of stars, like it had been for the past few nights. The street the bookshop was in was quiet, but not dead. And the circular wooden sign of the red crow was lit up with a singular warm light, clearly visible even with the darl shadows of ivy around it.

And I didn't know how many steps it took me from the bookshop to my apartment, at what point I decided to at least try it out and see for myself how I fit in. I wanted to see how loud the birds are, Mother. I want to see it spread its red wings and caw. I want to see how it commands the room with a levelled stare.

So dear Mother, forgive me -- perhaps this isn't what you imagined your dearest daughter doing just weeks after she's left her nest.

But let me find my purpose. Let me learn the hard way. Maybe it'll keep my hands busy, it'll keep my mind occupied. It would definitely fill up my days.

Pay is dirt-cheap but it'll be a nice change from the four corners of my studio apartment.

Talk to you soon. Maybe. Hopefully.

- Faye