THE SURREAL made physical
I dreamt of a library last night.
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I was idling between fantasy and science fiction, hoping to find Sanderson, Rothfuss, Atwood, and Le Guin. They were all there, having a banter in the shelves: “Did you read his new book? It’s a western, with guns.” “But my map is better than yours.” “I don’t even need a map—my prose can stand alone.” “Shh, someone’s coming.”
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Blushing for my intrusion, I quickly strode away, wandering deeper into the winding labyrinth of the Stacks.
Based on a portion of an essay written for my Art of the Essay course, this section cut taken through the entrance of the Downtown Public Library reimagines a patron's existence within the dream space of the building façade.
What is this page?
I soon found my way out of the high-ceilinged, ever-expanding contemporary fictions and into the lofty-goaled, dusty shack housing our dramatic philosophers. They were quarreling with their neighbors, historic Christianity and Islam, who were for once on the same side. Was there any place I could find some peace and quiet? I absconded into the stairwell hidden in the corner, hoping to get off at the next floor down, but it continued winding around in a never ending spiral until, finally, I was received in the Maps Room. The walls were at war.
Borges was meditating on a mandala in the center of the floor. When I looked at him, he raised a steady finger to his lips. He stood in one fluid motion and pointed to a door hidden behind an original Ptolemy.
Borges opened the door.
Rays of sun glimmered against the schools of dust particles swimming through the air. Patterned light fell on overstuffed couches. They were almost filled to their metaphorical couch brims with others of my kind. The few people who were only on their phones had the decency, here, to temporarily go somewhere else. The empty spots left behind by the screen people were soon filled by a homeless octogenarian. Was he down and out in Paris? Or could this be London? I don’t think it was either.
The sofa was warm and soft in the spot he left open for me on his right. “Where did the books go?” I asked.
The tired man looked at me and became George Orwell: “Where did Borges?”
I looked back to the Maps room, but Borges and the door were gone. A sea of computers were in their place, submerging Orwell into a riptide of electrical wire. My heart beat faster. “What happened?” I asked, and scrambled to find a rope to pull him in.
He was strangely calm as it pulled him under and over the waves of current. With his final breath, he whispered, “We shall meet in a place of no darkness.”
As his head disappeared below the vastness of this new ocean, a profile of Borges could be seen on the other side. He was helping a young girl of 3 or 4, too young to remember how lucky she is, check out a pile of books the size of her torso. Her mother was there, proud and smiling, and the tide recessed.
Life moves forward.