Sunday

What does one write about when having a cup of coffee at one of the several Caribous at the Mall of America. Of course, the simple answer is that I could write whatever I desire to write. But that avoids the larger topic of what there is in the Mall of America to inspire writing? Wordsworth would not have written The Prelude here, nor do I think Bloom’s odyssey would have been the same journey had he spent the twenty four hours meandering about this mega-mall. Writing may be a personal experience, but it takes place in a social world—albeit, even if that world is one of chosen (or even enforced!) solitude. The level of noise here astounds me; there is the general hum of conversation, of marching feet, of screaming children and scolding parents, of adolescent sexualities and adult lecheries. There are two locations of Victoria’s Secret where men ogle the merchandise wishing their women would wear them, or even that they could wear them, and where often they are content to watch the customers who do venture in and out—carrying their purchases in seductive bags. (Alas, I’ve said too much.) Here there is too much activity; downstairs there is a stage where entertainment occupies the weary shopper or the lonely traveler. Upstairs there are the movie theaters, and all about are stores—too many stores, so many stores. There is even a store to purchase souvenirs from the Mall Of America—to remember the spending of money. I feel that all that I should about here is about money, consumption, purchase and image.

I don’t know if the emptiness inside derives from my being here, or whether the reflections about here derive from a certain emptiness. Dylan’s line from “Ain’t Talking” loops through my consciousness: “I’m trying to love my neighbor and do good unto others, but oh mother, things ain’t going well.”

I’m not getting too personal here today. There’s too much leaking possible. Leaking is a term I use to refer to the willingness of people (myself and close companions) to let their neuroses be visible rather than to make the effort to hide them by trying to hold themselves together. It once crossed my mind that holding it together required too much energy for no or little effect. I leak myself frequently, and seek out people willing to leak. But sometimes, I’m aware that I could suffocate someone in my outflowings. There are a few who can tolerate the flooding, but not often—and certainly not many.

So I’m here finishing too much coffee waiting for my daughter to finish a scavenger hunt in the Mall of America—what could they seek out here that isn’t already in full view? But she’s with her friends and it doesn’t matter what is hidden here: her friends are all about her. We’ll soon begin the drive home.