For those of us with triskaidekaphobia the year 2012+1 will be an entire year of forced behavioral therapy.
It’s a stupid superstition but one I still struggle to shake as (for me) it’s wrapped into a weird layer of OCD-based terror. In my mind, every time some one says the unlucky number, everything becomes unlucky for everyone who has just heard that number, and only saying it again will cancel the negative effects. Except that it’s impossible to know exactly if you’re on the lucky or unlucky side of life, and so maybe you say the unlucky number to get you out of an unlucky period but then you get your arm chopped off and then you realize that you were in the unlucky period before, so you say it again and then your leg falls off because you’ve just said the unlucky number too many times and fate is now pissed that you’re fucking with her. This all makes sense in my head.
That’s why yesterday at my friend Laura’s house I was a bit of a nervous wreck entering the first day of this terribly named year. And so we decided to change the name. To “The Library.” At first I thought this just made me feel immediately better because the booze had just kicked in, but now I’m perfectly sober and I’m in the second day in The Library and I feel so terribly comforted.
In The Library you are safe. It smells of old books and worlds you’ve yet to explore. It smells of worlds you’ve loved that beckon you back. It smells of the bacon sandwich the guy in the corner has smuggled in while he devours words and food, not sure which is more filling.
In the library you are prepping.
Everything that happens in the library is just preparation for the next year. That means if you fuck something up this year it’s fine. This whole year is just practice. The library is made for that. Maybe you spend the year writing a book no one will ever read. Maybe you spend the year recuperating from last year. Maybe you burn the Thanksgiving turkey and forget an important birthday. It’s okay. It happened in The Library. It was just practice for next year. Maybe it’s insanity, or maybe it’s just me, but somehow I think we all need a year in The Library. A year where it’s safe to make mistakes. A year where it’s okay to have to escape and stare out the window without someone asking you when you’re going to get back to work and fix your life. A year where we all whisper quietly about our plans and our wishes and dreams and darkest fears. A year in The Library. A year of getting lost in dusty, forgotten corners, and a year of finding the want. (The want to leave. The want to play. The want to shrug off the dreams and walk out in the sunlight. The want to pounce on 2014 with glee and rapture.)
The Library opened yesterday. It closes 51.9 weeks from now.