I had been in a very
foul mood and haven't written a
node in 29 days. I had practically rid myself of my
everything addiction. I ran down to the
laundry room to get a shirt when I saw it. Really, I only saw a small corner of the cover. It was my 1978 copy of
Ray Bradbury's
Something Wicked This Way Comes. On the cover where those
crazy eyed demonic carousel horses with whip like
tongues. I pulled the
paperback out form under the pile of papers, books, boxes and fanned the now yellow pages. Not that the pages were ever
white, but the tan pulp pages were now rippled and yellowed, the
survivor of 2 floods, both attributable to the
washing machine. The book is a remnant from days long ago when I was driven to read everything Bradbury wrote. I hunted through all the used
book stores for every book listed in the front or back of each of the books authored by him that I read. When I couldn't find a certain one, I would finally break down and by a new copy at the mall.
I opened the book to a random page and read a few lines. The magic of his writing style clawed at my emotions. I realized, that I didn't remember much of this story, especially how it ends. Since then, the book has been my constant companion. I steal a few pages here and there at lunch or before I fall asleep at night. Again I am drawn into the story. Everything Bradbury writes seems so possible in my mind, even the most impossible things. I am 12 again. Climbing trees and sneaking out at night become exciting again. The truths of a pre-adolescent become my own. The struggle between good and evil mirrors my own. The dark, melancholy atmosphere of the book finds me walking in the bright sunshine at lunch, feeling only emotional rain. From miles away and almost 40 years in the past, Bradbury plays with my thoughts and emotions and moods. I look forward to finishing the story, re-living the ending. I dread finishing the book, returning to reality, becoming myself again.