One Kind of Everything
Nov 26 2010


I got them at the liquor store
or supermarket;
which was a longer walk
but felt more deserving.
Where I shopped
for macaroni, and dented cans
bruised bananas, going black
and produce past its due-date
— as good as perfect fruit,
at least for scurvy.

And have stayed with me on every move.
Filled with books
I haven’t cracked since college,
but find I cannot part with.
Sometimes, don’t even unpack
before moving on.

The boxes are cleverly nested
in a crowded closet
or musty basement,
marked with vintage logos
and discontinued brands.
With the faint whiff of vinegar
that old cardboard
and cheap paper give-off,
going brittle, and brown.

How these books weigh me down
I’m not quite sure —
are they an anchor
holding me back,
or a solid foundation
that keeps me grounded?
Either way, I feel reassured,
home-made shelves
filled with familiar stuff
like some sort of talisman.
The book as object,
its contents immaterial.

Of course, they’re useless now,
when tiny silicon chips
contain whole libraries.
The boxes, though
remind me of that old supermarket
that was as small as a modern convenience store.
Not much choice, back then,
nothing foreign, or exotic
or terribly fresh.
Oddly, we were probably happier, shopping
in that modest emporium —
no second-guessing, or regrets
when there’s one kind of everything.

The books, too, contained all the truth,
their received wisdom
irrefutable.
And, like me, hardly up-to-date.
Weighed down by words,
no one there to hear.



This poem has a certain nostalgic power for me. I remember collecting boxes, before a move, at supermarkets and liquor stores. I remember this A&P from the late 70’s, in downtown Kingston: no one today would believe that this actually called itself a “super” market; not in this era of big box stores and hypermarkets. I remember that distinct smell of age and decomposition when I was cleaning out old cardboard boxes from under the stairs: the sort of stuff you know you’d never use, but needed to “ferment” for a while before you could, in all conscience, toss. And I remember vigilantly watching prices and searching out discounts, when there wasn’t much money for basic food.

There are a lot of small details that paint this character as a bit of failure; and, at the same time, elicit a certain sympathy for him: he’s too poor to have a car (or at least early on he didn’t); he moves a lot, presumably looking for work; his shelves are still home-made (I picture college dorm style, made of bricks and 2 x 4’s); and he’s a long way from college, but still seems unsure of his place in the world. He’s not me. But in the final stanza, I guess my subconscious discontent broke through, and he and I end up sharing not just a jaded view of modernity, but the frustration of unpublished writers.

There is a lot of truth in the way we haul around boxes of old books, and how we ornament our shelves with them: books we’ll almost certainly never open again. Perhaps it’s because of the reassuring sense of continuity they provide, a link to our past. Perhaps it’s out of respect: how throwing out a book is such a philistine and irreverent act. Perhaps it’s the mystical sense of knowledge attained, simply by proximity to it. Perhaps it’s a way of proclaiming who we are to the world: not necessarily trying to impress people, but simply that the books that formed us are almost a template of our inner lives. Or perhaps it’s just the usual good intentions: that some day we’ll re-read (or, in some cases, read them for the first time!) Again, please don’t mistake this for autobiography. I actually don’t have this talismanic collection of old books. But I know people who do. I suppose it’s odd that this character seems as sentimental about the boxes as he is about the books. It may not be sentimentality, though: it could be efficiency, or thrift. Or perhaps just plain laziness!

I used “One Kind of Everything” for the title because this is my favourite part of the piece. First of all, because of this strong memory of that old supermarket, and how today something like that seems so quaint and distant and hard to believe. And second, because “happiness” research (something called “behavioural economics”) actually shows this to be true: our purchases give us more happiness – and we’re more likely to buy – when there is less choice! Our terribly destructive consumer society is all about obsolescence and choice. And yet when we see 20 varieties of jam on the shelf, rather than 6, we’re more likely to be paralyzed by too much choice into not buying at all. Or, if we do, we’re more likely to second guess ourselves, and feel regret.

I quite like this poem. I think it evokes a sense of nostalgia and loss and mild failure, in which most of us can see something of ourselves. And I like the way the final stanza ties things together, conflating the character with his collection of books: the weight of words (both metaphorical and literal); the feeling of anachronism and futility.