Send My Love to Anyone is thrilled to present a new column by Kirby: The First Time.

The First Time: it’s like the first time you hear somebody’s voice and ask the record shop owner who it is and they reply, “Ella Fitzgerald.”
There’s always a first time.

Exterior of a red brick building with a glass storefront filled with books on display. A sign above reads The Printed Word. Three folding chairs are set up beside a wooden cart with black lettering: bargain bin, buck or two — The Printed Word

It’s been donkey’s years since I shopped for myself, let alone traveled over an hour to a town she’s never been to a bookstore I’ve only heard about. Fuck yes, she’s excited!

It’s a picture perfect day, light traffic on the QEW/403. Did I ever mention it’s a sweet thing to be a passenger? I used to drive living in Ohio, hell everywhere. Walk? To where? Hunny, people would circle for hours in a mall parking lot not to walk, curse anyplace sans drive-thru. This is America.

Landing in Toronto was the start of my walking life, cycling younger days, hitting all her book & record shops weekly (12” singles came out Tuesdays) Record Peddler, Driftwood (w/Don), Sam’s, Vortex (w/Bert), later Rotate/HMV, This Ain’t, Glad Day (upstairs on Yonge), Pages, Edwards, David Mirvish, Book City (on Bloor), Balfour (across from the Royal) World’s Biggest, the shops along Harbord, Ten Editions, Willow, Elliot’s (who bought my old gay porn mags then I’d go to the Coach House for the breakfast special or Brother’s for chicken pot pie, or a turkey slice across Yonge). A well-familiar track.

I still recall with glee scoring the 12” UK Import of The Smiths Big Mouth Strikes Again the day it came out, waiting in line at Sam’s for the midnight release of Madonna’s Like a Prayer on vinyl, Mirvish Village on Sundays, blackened chicken livers at Southern Accent, how much Pages felt like a real bookstore, and how cruisy the porn section (actually, the whole shop) of Glad Day was the BEST pick-up place (not in any way resembling the sterile/correct space it is today).

“Are we going the right way?,” Katya, bookseller, owner of The Great Escape Book Store asks behind the wheel.

“I think so, it says we’re there in three minutes!”

And, viola! Our destination with a parking spot right in front of The [legendary] Printed Word on King Street W [which looks so much like Toronto’s Queen St W 40 years ago] Dundas, Ontario.

Even before entering, I am enthralled.

What joy is this?

Any bricks and mortar bookstore that physically features poetry as its oak is an honest to god real bookstore.

I have entered The Printed Word.

We’re talking an entire front shop wall of poetry, divided UK, US, Canadian, with a display of poetic ephemera, a case of rarities and a display rack of chapbooks a top bins carrying the same.

Wall of poetry, divided UK, US, Canadian, with a display of poetic ephemera, a case of rarities and a display rack of chapbooks a top bins carrying the same.

She is agog. And then there’s the books themselves.

She spys/opens the free standing case of ephemera, Brian Dedora’s HUGE, something I’ve only heard about, seeing the original work on display at Dedora’s recent Contact show at Feheley Fine Arts in Toronto.

Brian Dedora's book Huge with an orange cover sits on a wooden table. — *Huge* by Brian Dedora

Excerpt from huge with photograph of book on wooden dock. — Excerpt from *HUGE* by Brian Dedora

James says, “I have this other piece of Dedora’s that’s equally obscure.”

Have I fucking died and gone to heaven? Why does this feel so familiar?

This is as KFB as KFB ever was.

And bookseller, avid reader James McDonald is its keeper. The one who is doing everything right.

He’s as knowledgeable as he is lovely.

Did I mention he’s knowledgeable?

A bookseller who knows exactly what he has. A photographic memory, fluent in spines, of course the books are “in order” his brilliant mind connecting the dots responding, equally conversant with customers combing the philosophers as a woman who inquires about a poet who recently died.

James lives and breathes The Printed Word. Is a major player to the life of this street, this town, this place, this country. Having met him only once, sharing a coffee out front on the side walk of King W Dundas’ main drag I can no longer imagine my world without him.

Bookseller James McDonald sitting outside The Printed Word bookshop. Closing sale sign in window behind him. — James McDonald

I point to him, “Look at these clouds!” as if they too reflect how sweet this day of our meeting is.

James turns, his hand sweeps his hair, looks, smiles.

We talk about what we’re going to do now that we’re both closing shops.

“I really don’t know what I’m going to do,” James replies. “Find a job. Something with benefits.” We chuckle.

I share the story of this hot city worker in boots and safety vest who regularly passed my balcony. My ongoing fantasy of having dinner and a cold beer waiting for him at the end of day. “He’s got a job with benefits!”

What does one do after they lose their treasure?

I recall one night attending a gala at a major poetry prize, a rather stately man my senior inquired what it was that I do.

“I run a poetry shop in Kensington Market,” I replied.

“A poetry shop?!” his face incredulous, “is there any money in it?”

And I looked around the opulent gathering and said, “I see a lot of money here!” The entire table burst out laughing.

Back inside James’ shop. Did she find everything she was looking for? No, of course not. But, the finds. What a sweet thing to browse, cull, and weed through a glorious wall-o-poetry twice that afternoon.

I had a budget. My first pull in two stacks, musts and add-ons, squeaked past.

Then, I bought a few gifts. That put me over, but well worth it. She made out.

Stack of books top to bottom: Forgetting Elena by Edmund White, Nothing to Declare by Henri Cole, Every Day by Philip Whalen, Scenes of Life at the Capital by Philip Whalen, White Piano by Nicole Brossard, disobedience by Alice Notley, Young Robert Duncan by Ekbert Faas, C.P. Cavafy Collected Poems, translated by Daniel Mendelsohn, Notes from the Air by John Ashbery, They Knew What They Wanted: Poems and Collages by John Ashbery, Women in Concrete Poetry 1959-1979, Collected Poems by Ron Padgett, The Iovis Trilogy by Anne Waldman, Maximus Poems by Charles Olson — Stack of Books from The Printed Word

James, god how I wish we would’ve met sooner, strike some form of collaboration/exchange between shops. Thanks for fronting our chapbooks so lovingly. For carrying, tending such a grand vision. A place for lovers, where fingers and eyes meet page.

So, yes it’s beyond sad that you’re having to close this haven, this home. No small decision.

Respect. And deep affection. I wouldn’t want to be less than The Printed Word either. I’m sorry for our losses.

I know we never hear it nearly enough. Well done, sweet man. Well done. Please keep in touch let me know what you’re up to. I only wish you well and Thanks for as lovely a day I’ve ever had.

Note: James later wrote to me, “Kirby, it was a great day (look at those clouds!) and a memorable visit. Thanks for making the trip.”

~~Further note: The Printed Word is currently having its Closing Sale, 40% Off all titles until the end of October when the doors close.~~ ~~Go. Treat yourself.~~ ~~Show this bookseller some lovin (and give him mine).~~

Update: 26 October 2022. The clouds have parted and lo and behold, The Printed Word is not closing but moving! James:

“Yes, this is actually happening. We’ve found a perfect new location just in the nick of time! I can hardly believe it myself…just a couple blocks away [16 McMurray Street]. Looking forward to seeing you at the new iteration of The Printed Word.”

Opening early November.

As American playwright Sam Shepard once said about storytelling, “I hate endings. Just detest them.” Then went on to say, “the most authentic endings are the ones which are already revolving towards another beginning. That's genius.”

James, this is genius. Can’t wait to see you.

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Kirby wearing lime green sunglasses, pink lipstick, eating a Pocky. — Kirby, 2022

Kirby. The poet (not the cream puff). poetryisqueer.com Publisher. knife | fork | book

Photo credits: Kirby.

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