Turn 225 of 233

Take Kimo to the library before work — he picks something new

The library opens at seven. Lena and Kimo are the thing that is the first-ones-through-the-door because the first-ones-through-the-door is the thing that is the routine and the routine is the thing that is the Tuesday-Thursday-Saturday. Dorothy is behind the desk. Dorothy is the thing that is the always-there the way the concrete is the always-there. She looks up when they come in and the looking-up is the thing that is the smiling because Dorothy has stopped being surprised by Kimo the way everyone has stopped being surprised by Kimo. The not-surprised is the thing that is the accustomed. The accustomed is the thing that is the warm.

"Morning, Lena. Morning, Kimo," Dorothy says. She has a cart of returns behind her. The cart is the thing that is the half-full. The half-full is the thing that says the morning is the thing that is the early-still.

"Morning, Dorothy," Kimo says. He walks past the desk the way he always walks — 67 inches tall, 372 pounds, bare feet on the library's tile floor, the feet making the sound that is the thing that is the soft-against-hard. The librarian's tile is the thing that is the smooth. The smooth is the thing that is the different-from-concrete. Kimo's feet feel the difference. The feeling is the thing that is the noticing. The noticing is the thing that is the not-commenting. He just walks.

Lena follows. She is the thing that is the 925-pounds-on-library-tile and the tile is the thing that is the holding. The holding is the thing that says the library was built for people and the people were not the thing that is the 925-pounds but the tile does not know that. The tile just holds. The holding is the thing that is the neutral.

Kimo goes to the adult nonfiction section. The going is the thing that is the not-the-children's-section because the children's-section is the thing that is the behind-him. He has not been to the children's section in four months. The four months is the thing that is the not-regression. The not-regression is the thing that says the children's books are the thing that is the not-enough. The not-enough is not the thing that is the bad. The not-enough is the thing that is the outgrown. The outgrown is the thing that is the natural.

He walks the aisles. His hand trails along the spines. The trailing is the thing that is the reading-without-reading — his fingertips reading the texture of the bindings, the raised letters, the smooth and the rough. He passes geology. He passes engineering. He passes chemistry. The passing is not the thing that is the dismissive. The passing is the thing that is the already-read. The already-read is the thing that is the library-card-history. Dorothy has a shelf of Kimo's returns behind the desk — thirty-seven books in the last two months, each one read cover to cover, each one returned with pages uncreased because Kimo does not crease pages. Kimo's hands are the thing that is the careful.

He stops. The stopping is the thing that is the sudden. His hand has stopped on a spine in the music section. The music section is the thing that is the not-the-usual. The usual is the thing that is the science and the engineering and the geology. The music section is the thing that is the new-aisle. The new-aisle is the thing that is the today's-aisle.

He pulls the book. The pulling is the thing that is the careful. The book is thick. The spine is the thing that is the wide. The cover is the thing that is the dark-blue. The title is: The Art of Fugue — J.S. Bach. The subtitle is: A Companion to the Complete Works. The cover has a diagram on it — a fugue structure rendered as architecture, voices entering like rooms being built onto a house.

Kimo holds the book the way he holds the barbell — with the full attention of his hands, the weight of it registered and respected. He opens it. The opening is the thing that is the middle. He reads a page. The reading is the thing that is the thirty-seconds. Thirty seconds is the thing that is the fast for a page of fugue analysis. But the fast is not the thing that is the skimming. The fast is the thing that is the Kimo-reading. Kimo-reading is the thing that is the whole-page-at-once. The whole-page-at-once is the thing that is the pattern-seeing. The pattern-seeing is the thing that is the exercise-made-habit.

"Mama," he says. He is still looking at the page.

"The fugue is the thing that is the integration."

"How?" Lena says. She is standing beside him in the narrow aisle, 925 pounds filling the space between the shelves, her belly pressing gently against a row of books on the opposite side. The pressing is the thing that is the not-caring. The not-caring is the thing that is the library-is-the-place-for-bodies-too.

"The fugue is the thing that is the many-voices," Kimo says. He turns the book so Lena can see the page. The page has a diagram — four voices, each entering at different times, each saying the same theme but the saying is the thing that is the different-starting-point. The different-starting-point is the thing that makes the voices the thing that is the not-the-same even though the theme is the thing that is the same.

"Many voices. One theme. The voices enter at the different times. The different times is the thing that is the offset. The offset is the thing that makes the weaving. The weaving is the thing that is the integration. Integration is the many-becoming-one. The fugue is the thing that is the many-becoming-one. The fugue is the thing that is the integration."

He closes the book. Holds it against his chest. The holding-against-chest is the thing that Lena recognizes. She has seen him hold books against his chest before. The holding is the thing that is the choosing. The choosing is the thing that is the this-one.

"This one," he says.

They walk to the desk. Dorothy scans the book. The scanning is the thing that is the routine. Dorothy stamps the return card. The stamping is the thing that is the satisfying. The satisfying is the thing that is the sound-of-the-rubber-on-the-card.

"Bach," Dorothy says. She looks at the book. She looks at Kimo.

"That one's been on the shelf for three years. Nobody's checked it out."

"Three years is the thing that is the waiting," Kimo says. "The waiting is the thing that is the for-the-Kimo."

Dorothy laughs. The laughing is the thing that is the real. Kimo takes the book. Lena takes Kimo's hand. The taking-of-the-hand is the thing that is the not-usual because Kimo does not usually hold hands. The not-usual is the thing that is the today. Today is the thing that is the new-book day. The new-book day is the thing that is the holding-hands day. The holding-hands is the thing that is the okay.

They walk out into the morning. The morning is the thing that is the seven-fifteen. The seven-fifteen is the thing that is the site-by-seven-thirty. Kimo carries the book against his chest. The carrying is the thing that is the proud. The proud is the thing that is the not-showing-off. The proud is the thing that is the holding-the-new-thing-close. The close is the thing that is the careful. The careful is the thing that is the Kimo.