Wednesday, November 25, 2015 // The Statement
8B

They wrote something genius.

My nose drips. In an instant, it has gotten cold outside, 

and the winter breeze swirls yellow gingko leaves around 
in harsh circles. Inside Literati, I stare at the checkerboard 
floor, and am hyper-aware of the cadence of my sniffling in 
contrast to the smooth tunes of Norah Jones.

I scan the chalkboard headings over the shelves, each in 

their own unique font, but eventually approach a short table 
of books near the door.

One title, “Redeployment,” features the silhouette of a sol-

dier and sports one of Literati’s iconic handwritten recom-
mendations.

...this book is not a beach read, but the writing is powerful, 

the stories will stick with you, and your perspective on our 
current wars and most importantly our veterans will/may 
never be the same. Highly recommended. — Mike.

I pick it up and stuff it under my arm.
Eavesdropping, I listen to a silver-haired woman explain 

to a gentleman that the store has three floors. The main floor 
is mostly fiction, the basement is nonfiction and the upstairs 
is a coffee shop with a section for young readers. I find myself 
inexplicably nodding in agreement. The woman turns to me 
and asks if I need any help.

“I’m just looking,” I respond.
But the woman spots the book under my arm.
“Trying to decide?” she inquires. “You’ve got that look 

about you.”

She smiles the way my grandmother did, without showing 

her teeth but with her eyes bright from behind her glasses.

As I pick up a copy of a book one of my former profes-

sors had written, the three women working in the store try 
to decide if they can put the chalkboard “events” sign back 
outside.

“Is it still drizzling?” one ponders.
“No, but the wind gusts keep knocking it down,” another 

replies.

I retreat to the basement of the store and stop to see the 

latest news on Literati’s Rheinmetall typewriter, a blue-gray 
fixture perched on a low table in the corner by the stairs.

A short poem about spring is the only text on the page, 

but many snippets of text are posted on the wall behind the 
machine. Typewriter rule #6 stated, “If you type something 
genius, you’ll make it on to our wall of fame.” Beneath that, 
someone had pasted a tiny message:

something genius
I bolt back up the stairs and pay for both my selection and 

an overpriced Moleskine planner that I don’t really need.

I exit the store toting a Literati bag and head down Fourth 

Avenue.

As I fight my way through the blustery Ann Arbor after-

noon, I can hear one of the two people smoking in a huddle 
near the side of a building:

“I see those bags all the time these days.”

I want something spicy.

Incense perfumes the inside of Crazy Wisdom. I linger 

near the front of the store because there is truly so much to 
look at, and I’m distracted by the presentation of mandala 
coloring books for adults. On top of the shelves, headshots of 
spiritual teachers Meher Baba and Ram Dass, among others, 
line the wall. In the front window, up high, owl and dolphin-
shaped bells adorn a short metal tree. I don’t realize they’re 
bells until I nudge the tree and hear one jingle. Nearby, a 
book titled “Owls: Our Most Charming Bird” perches on the 
shelf. It features striking illustrations — biologically correct, 
by my estimation.

A bearded man wearing a T-shirt that reveals a sleeve tat-

too on one arm asks the young woman working at the counter 
if he can look at some jewelry. He’s interested in red garnet, 
specifically a piece with seven stones. I don’t look to see, but 
I imagine the gemstones as seven little beady eyes.

Who is he shopping for? I wonder.
Crazy Wisdom houses a multitude of stones, crystals and 

gems. I approach an impressive display of amber jewelry 
enclosed in glass. I think of my younger brother; he once 
bought a necklace here for a girl he liked, and I remember 
how the woman tenderly opened the glass case to let us grap-
ple over which one the girl would like best.

The store holds itself as a bedrock of holistic health and 

spirituality. Each artifact on display has a short description 
next to it that details its history or healing properties: The 
Hindu deity Ganesh is the god of good fortune and success. 
Black onyx supposedly protects people, transforming their 
negative energies.

I can understand why these things might be profitable.
Nearby, many non-book related objects are for sale: cards 

and hand-sewn journals, bundled sage to “protect your 
home,” incense and all of the extras for burning it, dream 
catchers, patchouli soaps and essential oils. I laugh when I 
notice a sign that reads, “Salt chunks are not to be rubbed on 
your skin.” Perhaps the people who bought salt chunks were 
yearning for something to heal them, whatever their ailment 
may be.

I draw squiggles on a Buddha board and examine quill 

pens, ink and wax stamp seals. Fancy mortar and pestles 

fill an entire display. Near the back of the store, Celtic music 
becomes audible. A blond woman asks two employees if they 
have any Tarot cards that deal with the sun sign.

“There is an astrological deck,” one of the women 

responds.

She had short brown hair and explained how she learned a 

lot about astrology from the cards.

“I like the art, too,” she added.
A grand, wood-paneled staircase leads to the Tea Room of 

Crazy Wisdom. Instead of Celtic music, horns blare through 
the speakers. At the top of the banister, there sits a collec-
tion of lavish, handmade mugs with bulbous bellies and 
stones glazed to the handles. They are colored with the most 
beautiful gem tones, and I touch many of them lightly, think-
ing about the one I once bought for my mom, even though I 
wanted to keep it for myself.

I walk up to the counter to order some tea, self-conscious 

of the way my boots sound on the hardwood floor in the 
empty room.

“What do you recommend?” I ask the woman behind the 

counter.

She has the softest black ringlets framing her face, and she 

leans across the counter to look at the tea list with me.

“What do you like?”
She rattles off with a few of her favorites, like Earl Grey or 

English Breakfast, when I interject:

“I want something spicy.”
“Spicy? Hmm … hang on.” She flips the menu to read it and 

apologizes to me.

“This is my first day of work.”
“Oh, welcome,” I say, though I immediately wonder what 

qualifies me to welcome her here.

I eye her to see if she could sense it.
I pour tea from the white pot, spilling on the table just 

slightly. After soaking it up with a tiny napkin, I take a sip. 
Bitter and earthy — not what I wanted, but it’s warm, and I 
feel grateful nonetheless.

BETWEEN
From Page 5B

SAN PHAM/ Daily

Crazy Wisdom Bookstore and Tea Room, S. Main St.

SAN PHAM/ Daily

Literati Bookstore, E. Washington St.

