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.