I tried. I honestly tried. I punched buttons, and punched buttons, and punched buttons, aiming high and low and waving the thing around in the air above my head like a magic wand. I pushed multiple buttons at the same time in an effort to attempt the whole control/alt/delete wizardry on the television set via the remote control.
It’s nuanced secrets eluded me. It’s mysterious and titillating entertainments remained hidden beyond a veil of confounding technology, and my experts and guides in this matter, to a one, were all away for the night.
I glared at the wretched thing in my hand and shook it violently as though perhaps it simply needed its memory jogged in order to work. It didn’t work. The battery casing slipped free and it’s contents flew far and wide, dragging with them a string of obscenities from my lips as if they were caught in the same net.
The dark screen mocked me. It’s portal through the ether to sitcoms and action adventure remained closed to me. Damnit.
All around me beckoned stacks and piles and baskets and shelves of books I’ve adored, books I bought simply because they were so beautiful, books I’ve wanted to dive into but couldn’t find the time, and books I’ve bought because someone somewhere loved it, was transformed by it, was discomforted by it, was broken open by it and I absolutely had to experience that too. So I bought them and stacked them and piled them and tucked them near soft spots and good lights in the hopes of finding myself alone with them.
This was my chance. I dropped the remains of the remote on a table, piled my hair on top of my head to keep its unruly locks away from my face, and slipped my glasses on reaching for the closest book.
The Girl Who Drank The Moon….
*sigh…..the gorgeous words spread wide, the smell of ink and paper and dust. I sank back into the corner of the couch and pulled pillows around me to prop my arms as I read. Geeked out in splendor. The tyranny of the remote was no more.