The library cat, kafka, belongs to himself and to the Library. But I sometimes get jealous of all his other friends. Though I am perhaps most responsible for this cat, many people have taken him on as someone to watch out for and take care of. Yesterday I found kafka with an old man in a corner of the newspaper area. I have known the man for many, many years. He is rough and a bit ragged, always striking me as one of those people on some edge of homelessness. I don't think I have ever exchanged a word with him, and I've never seen him check out Library material. He had laid out large sheets of newspaper in front of him, presumably not the library's, and was hand feeding kafka sardines, with those newspapers protecting our carpet. There was no shyness in kafka as he ate, and the two of them seemed peaceable together, and settled, perhaps even practiced, in their exchange. That jealous part of me wanted to find something officious, or something wrong about it. Sometimes it is hard to tell if we are succumbing, or being responsible.
I crouched at a respectful distance.
"Those are water packed?" I asked.
The man nodded with a strange shyness. I nodded back and returned to shelving. Actually, I was a bit jealous of them both.
Thursday, December 5, 2013
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
Good art bad art
As a person of strong opinions, aye, ferocious, sometimes terrifying opinions, I have had to step back on occasion and reflect on the idea of good art vs. bad art. To wit, is there really, in the end, good art and bad art? Is there an absolute, objective evaluation anywhere to be had, as it so feels like there must be, or is every shred of greatness and love or loathing held privately, one at a time, in each individual heart?
Well?
Oh, right, I must answer my own questions here.
I don't know. Over the years I answer it one way and I answer it another, but no way sticks.
On the one hand I become certain there is some weird god somewhere who can tell me there is an absolute difference between the loathsome Berenstain Bears and Dr Seuss, Garfield and Peanuts, Dark Knight Rises and The Godfather, Thomas Kinkade and John Constable, Heaven Is For Real and, well, anything, I am beside myself with choices here. And yet for each of these clear choices there are people facing the opposite direction from me. They stand rapt at their beloved Thomas Kinkade print, they obsessively pester the children's librarians for more Garfield or Berenstain Bears while the complete collection of Peanuts remains largely undisturbed these days, upstairs, in adult non fiction. They've read Heaven Is For Real seven times, and they failed to notice that Dark Knight Rises was profoundly bad. Oops. I mean, er, they really loved that Batman movie, Dark Knight Rises. Am I just supposed to say they're wrong? Well, I mean after I say they're wrong, are they actually wrong?
Oops, I think we're sort of back where we started.
Let's try another angle. Let's talk Libraries. What fun! Libraries are very much in on this discussion. After all, a Library is constantly forced to answer some version of this question. It it the job of a public library to provide materials strictly based on popularity, are we advanced scouts for popularity (it got good reviews, so we think it will be popular), can we advocate in hopes something we think is great will be popular? Is it our responsibility to decide some things are great and keep them in disproportion to their circulation and use?
Perhaps there is an answer with the critics. The really powerful critics, the deep ones, avoid the whole good and bad thing. They take the "bad" art, and, examining it, expose all its vacuous lies, its deception and meaninglessness. With the "good" art they start pulling truth out of it like its a magic hat. After that, you're on your own.
And maybe that's as close as we can get. There are things the closer you get and the deeper you look the richer and more profound and beautiful and wonderful they get, and there are things the closer you look, the emptier they get, until, eventually, you are staring into nothing.
Well?
Oh, right, I must answer my own questions here.
I don't know. Over the years I answer it one way and I answer it another, but no way sticks.
On the one hand I become certain there is some weird god somewhere who can tell me there is an absolute difference between the loathsome Berenstain Bears and Dr Seuss, Garfield and Peanuts, Dark Knight Rises and The Godfather, Thomas Kinkade and John Constable, Heaven Is For Real and, well, anything, I am beside myself with choices here. And yet for each of these clear choices there are people facing the opposite direction from me. They stand rapt at their beloved Thomas Kinkade print, they obsessively pester the children's librarians for more Garfield or Berenstain Bears while the complete collection of Peanuts remains largely undisturbed these days, upstairs, in adult non fiction. They've read Heaven Is For Real seven times, and they failed to notice that Dark Knight Rises was profoundly bad. Oops. I mean, er, they really loved that Batman movie, Dark Knight Rises. Am I just supposed to say they're wrong? Well, I mean after I say they're wrong, are they actually wrong?
Oops, I think we're sort of back where we started.
Let's try another angle. Let's talk Libraries. What fun! Libraries are very much in on this discussion. After all, a Library is constantly forced to answer some version of this question. It it the job of a public library to provide materials strictly based on popularity, are we advanced scouts for popularity (it got good reviews, so we think it will be popular), can we advocate in hopes something we think is great will be popular? Is it our responsibility to decide some things are great and keep them in disproportion to their circulation and use?
Perhaps there is an answer with the critics. The really powerful critics, the deep ones, avoid the whole good and bad thing. They take the "bad" art, and, examining it, expose all its vacuous lies, its deception and meaninglessness. With the "good" art they start pulling truth out of it like its a magic hat. After that, you're on your own.
And maybe that's as close as we can get. There are things the closer you get and the deeper you look the richer and more profound and beautiful and wonderful they get, and there are things the closer you look, the emptier they get, until, eventually, you are staring into nothing.
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
Fell in love with a painting
I will resist comparing it, which is one of my weaknesses, as in, it is the seventh greatest painting ever, by the 43rd best painter. It is better than Caspar David Friedrich, but not so good as Caravaggio. It is the best painting of Mountains ever and the eighth best nature scene. Oh Bah! I say even as I attempt to place it somehow, shout its virtues, exult, advocate, justify, explain, place, convey, elevate.
But maybe there is no more than this:
I love this painting.
Well, there is always a little more.
Very early in the morning I was walking through a temporary show of Japanese Art at my local museum. I had seen the show before, but this time it was so quiet, perhaps because it was dawn, of all strange and mysterious times to be in a museum, and I had seen the painting before and liked it very much, but this time was different. This time I looked at it. And then I kept looking at it. And then I looked at it some more. And the more I looked at the painting the better the painting seemed to get, the deeper I fell into it. The more I felt the air of it, cold and clear and slightly damp. The more real became the rising mist, the splash of water, the ragged stone and everlasting cliffs, the tiny great trees standing above an abyss of a mountain gorge falling forever below. I spied the rough little houses on the brief, high mountain plateau, bordering a fierce little stream, and I saw the path that climbed out of the plateau to disappear into the mysterious passes above. I walked the path.
What is the painting?
South Mountain in China by Fukui Kotei. Oh, you have not heard of him? You have never heard of the great, immortal Fukui Kotei? Who has not heard of Fukui Kotei!? Whose education has been so neglected? What theft of spirit and magic, inspiration and illumination has been stolen so from those not hearing of Fukui Kotei and South Mountain in China?
Don't worry. Or worry with me, for I hadn't heard of Fukui Kotei either, and still know little about him. And here I was thinking that we had heard of everyone great, knew all their stories, had our chance at them all. But it turns out the world is nothing like that. Another surprise for us both, forgotten delights everywhere. The painting is all ink, black, with two smaller areas splashed with white, both in the places where there are waterfalls. And all of it is on gold leaf. The painting is black ink over gold, and the gold has a way of being luxurious and dazzling in that way gold has, but it also has a fabulous way of receding, becoming even more tensionless behind and in the black than all the whites we are used to in this sort of work. And so the world it creates becomes somehow more present. Once you cross the border, the plane of the painting, and enter it, you are more fully in it. You are disappeared into gold itself. The whole thing is on two, continuous, six panel screens, almost six feet high and running right to left for well over 20 feet. Would you like to see it?
So would I. But I am not in the same room as it, and so we both must be deprived of that pleasure.
Oh you, me, with our fancy looking-glass internet, our books of all the art history, all our magical photography, and all the lies that everything is known. Here is one for us. This piece cannot be photographed, or, it can be, but little will be left of it. It must be seen, in body and space, and there is nothing else for it.
Monday, December 2, 2013
Why there are no great cat books
In a very recent post I spoke happily of kafka, the Library cat, and how he seems to be turning out very well indeed as he grows up. But some part of me thinks it sort of begs the question "And what cat doesn't turn out well?" Faced with that question I am at a loss. As far as my experience of them goes, all cats, in one way or another, turn out well. And so, with this, I think I have stumbled upon the answer to a riddle that has perplexed me for some years.
The riddle is this: Why are there several great dog books, but no great cat books?
Among the great dog books I can count offhand is The Dog Who Wouldn't Be by Farley Mowat, Uncle Boris in the Yukon and Other Shaggy Dog Stories by Daniel Pinkwater, The One Hundred and One Dalmatians by Dodie Smith and, possibly, Call of the Wild by Jack London. Also the entire Peanuts ouvre, though Snoopy as a dog, after the first ten years or so of the strip, is a rather questionable proposition.
Among the great cat books there is nothing. We have maybe the Cheshire cat in Alice's Adventures, but we're already well into Snoopy territory there, and there's a couple picture books I like. One of my favorite authors of all time, Ursula K. LeGuin, wrote a series about cats with wings. I don't not recommend it. And after that I am at a complete loss.
So what's the deal?
Here is my theory. Dogs are more variable and impressionable than cats. There are great dogs and crappy dogs. There are nice dogs and mean dogs. This kind of variability is useful for storytelling. Also these dogs, while by no means devoid of their own personalities, have a kind of receptivity. They readily take on the qualities of things around them. Nazis, or Conquistadors can have dogs and they become evil dogs. Daniel Pinkwater or Farley Mowat can have dogs and they are no doubt winning dogs. Surely there are plenty of exceptions to this, and a story about a southern police attack dog during the civil rights protests who refuses to menace the marchers might make for a very nice story, but all that only reinforces my point. And my point is that there is a lot of room with dogs, a lot of room in dogs, for us to broadcast, project, and fill out our stories and visions. Dogs will happily blend in with all that. They will drink it up, roll around in it and cover themselves with it. Hold it out to them and they will come running, tongue wagging. Hold that story crap out to a cat and it will start cleaning itself. It will give you a look that at first you will think is contempt, but then you will slowly start to wonder if you have any idea at all about what was in that cat look. It is not interested in your vision of the world. It is confident in its own. It does not welcome your narrative, it is busy with its own. And its own narrative is one we can admire or even totally love, but it is difficult to plagiarize, exploit or borrow, perhaps partly because it is slightly alien to our ideal cadences.
Or so my new found theory goes. It may be right, or partly right. But then, on the other hand, I can only count, what, like five great dog books? Perhaps its just a matter of luck and alchemy. Perhaps it's mere chance that no one has hit it, just so, with a cat book. Perhaps we should not give up hope yet. It may, one day, happen.
The riddle is this: Why are there several great dog books, but no great cat books?
Among the great dog books I can count offhand is The Dog Who Wouldn't Be by Farley Mowat, Uncle Boris in the Yukon and Other Shaggy Dog Stories by Daniel Pinkwater, The One Hundred and One Dalmatians by Dodie Smith and, possibly, Call of the Wild by Jack London. Also the entire Peanuts ouvre, though Snoopy as a dog, after the first ten years or so of the strip, is a rather questionable proposition.
Among the great cat books there is nothing. We have maybe the Cheshire cat in Alice's Adventures, but we're already well into Snoopy territory there, and there's a couple picture books I like. One of my favorite authors of all time, Ursula K. LeGuin, wrote a series about cats with wings. I don't not recommend it. And after that I am at a complete loss.
So what's the deal?
Here is my theory. Dogs are more variable and impressionable than cats. There are great dogs and crappy dogs. There are nice dogs and mean dogs. This kind of variability is useful for storytelling. Also these dogs, while by no means devoid of their own personalities, have a kind of receptivity. They readily take on the qualities of things around them. Nazis, or Conquistadors can have dogs and they become evil dogs. Daniel Pinkwater or Farley Mowat can have dogs and they are no doubt winning dogs. Surely there are plenty of exceptions to this, and a story about a southern police attack dog during the civil rights protests who refuses to menace the marchers might make for a very nice story, but all that only reinforces my point. And my point is that there is a lot of room with dogs, a lot of room in dogs, for us to broadcast, project, and fill out our stories and visions. Dogs will happily blend in with all that. They will drink it up, roll around in it and cover themselves with it. Hold it out to them and they will come running, tongue wagging. Hold that story crap out to a cat and it will start cleaning itself. It will give you a look that at first you will think is contempt, but then you will slowly start to wonder if you have any idea at all about what was in that cat look. It is not interested in your vision of the world. It is confident in its own. It does not welcome your narrative, it is busy with its own. And its own narrative is one we can admire or even totally love, but it is difficult to plagiarize, exploit or borrow, perhaps partly because it is slightly alien to our ideal cadences.
Or so my new found theory goes. It may be right, or partly right. But then, on the other hand, I can only count, what, like five great dog books? Perhaps its just a matter of luck and alchemy. Perhaps it's mere chance that no one has hit it, just so, with a cat book. Perhaps we should not give up hope yet. It may, one day, happen.
Sunday, December 1, 2013
The blogger calls on the gods
Sometimes I am walking around with my pockets stuffed full of blog ideas. It's a little like having my pockets full of cash, a nice, ready for anything feeling. Then I have a period where I'm writing all the time, and go through all the really appealing ideas, until I'm left with the equivalent of a pocket full of nickels. I also get left with all the really super long and challenging to write essay ideas, so, to continue the money analogy then, I have a pocket full of nickels and a couple large denomination bills in an obscure, foreign currency.
This is where I am right now. Nothing in my pockets of real use. But I do not despair when I come to this point. I merely put my order in with the gods. You wouldn't think it, but the gods are actually pretty good about answering, especially if you keep your requests modest. Here is today's order: I would like a very nice, neat little blog idea, nothing fancy, one that makes me feel quite witty, and takes about 12 minutes to write because I have to be at the Library front desk in 12 minutes.
I will wait here. I expect to hear soon.
This is where I am right now. Nothing in my pockets of real use. But I do not despair when I come to this point. I merely put my order in with the gods. You wouldn't think it, but the gods are actually pretty good about answering, especially if you keep your requests modest. Here is today's order: I would like a very nice, neat little blog idea, nothing fancy, one that makes me feel quite witty, and takes about 12 minutes to write because I have to be at the Library front desk in 12 minutes.
I will wait here. I expect to hear soon.
Saturday, November 30, 2013
The maturation of kafka
As kafka the Library cat bursts quickly through his weeks of adolescence, I can only conclude he is turning out very well. He is going to be, already really is, an excellent cat. Protected and domestic, he has his cuddly moments. He makes friends selectively, but easily (to become kafka's friend you need only to patiently desire with your whole being to be his friend. This technique works splendidly with most cats). He is fluidly at home in the Library and has developed the curious and enchanting habit of curling up with thick paperbacks clutched in his arms. This at least must partly explain his preference for the Sci Fi/Fantasy section which is full of these books that are thicker than they are wide. He purrs gently and often, is easily amused, and thoroughly self entertaining. But in addition to all his civilized qualities, kafka is also the wild animal of the stacks. He is a hunter and a prowler. The one pure beast among us. As the only touch of wilderness in the most civilized of all places, a Library, kafka is like a small oasis pond in a great, vast desert. Perhaps this is why so many patrons at first think he is an illusion.
"I could have sworn I saw a cat in here." They say to me. "Is there actually a cat in this Library?"
"How would you feel if there were a cat in this Library?" I ask back.
"Happy."
"Excellent." I say. "Join the club."
"I could have sworn I saw a cat in here." They say to me. "Is there actually a cat in this Library?"
"How would you feel if there were a cat in this Library?" I ask back.
"Happy."
"Excellent." I say. "Join the club."
Friday, November 29, 2013
The seven indicators that your phone call is never going to end
I love working with the public. In the context of helping them as a Library employee I find them entertaining, endearing, and interesting, albeit all in a sort of heartbreaking way. But just because I like helping people generally, or like helping most people, most of the time, doesn't mean that there aren't some people who are absolutely excruciating. The most prominent among this excruciating group are not, to me, the angry, belligerent people, but rather the slow, relentless, gentle people who only want to suck you into their world, in anyway they can, and keep you there until you suffocate or starve to death, at which point they will hang up and call someone else to pursue their never ending quest for destruction.
Because these people are stealthy, and, even at times, friendly seeming, I thought I'd give you some tips so you can spot them in your dealings. As they tend to be heavy phone users I have centered my identifying tips there. Once you have spotted one of these people you must do everything in your power to get away from them. Just how to do this almost impossible task must remain now a discussion for another time. Here we are discussing:
The seven indicators that your phone call is never going to end
1. They start with a pointless, irrelevant or unanswerable question.
You: "Good afternoon, this is the Lilyville Public Library."
Them: "Hello. Good afternoon to you. Is this the Library?"
This is a fine example. Also they may ask "Can you help me?" or "Can I ask you a question?" for an opener.
2. The cadence of their speaking is noticeably slow.
This is to get you to psychically lean towards them. They will then try to exploit this advantage to cause you to topple forward into their pit of endlessness, where you will spend all of eternity. Their slow cadence also makes the call last longer, which is one of their fundamental goals.
3. They act as if they have thoroughly prepared for the phone call, but are actually scrupulously unprepared.
"I have 11 books and two DVDs I'd like you to renew for me as they are due tomorrow...oh, you need my Library card?... Could you read the names of all the items I have out, and I'll tell you which? Some might be on my granddaughter's card. Oh, wait, this is the wrong card. Let's go look for my card."
4. They narrate meaningless details.
"Oh, you need my library card? My library card is very precious to me so I keep it in my special wallet. I am opening the wallet now. It has a red rubber band around it. The red rubber band is very tight and I'm trying to get it off now. I think it is the fifth, no, sixth card here..." This is an attempt to hypnotize you and to turn a ten second task into a bad, joint reading of James Joyce's Ulysses.
5. They tell you long, irrelevant stories as if they are an intrinsic part of the process.
"Can you renew False Mermaid for me as well? My daughter wanted to read it, but her knee swelled up so badly that we had to go to the urgent care where her cousin Pearl works. Pearl's mother is my sister Cheryl who passed away seven years ago now. God rest her soul. She wasn't a very nice woman. But my daughter would still really like to read it if she could..."
6. They exploit your errors.
It is your job to give complete information. When they ask if there is a way to see a list of all fiction writers of Italian descent who ever published a book, and you say anything other than "No." like "No, I mean, you would have to do searches of Italian authors, come up with multiple lists and then search each of their collections of books. Even then it would be very partial and incredibly incomplete." They will seize any scrap in your comment as a reasonable pursuit in their unreasonable question. "Oh, could you do that then?" Will invariably be their response. Your impulse towards full disclosure will be used against you.
7. They will fake wrap it up, but their last question is never their last question. It is merely a ray of hope that they hold out to squash and darken.
"You have been so kind and helpful. Can I ask just one last question? You've been so patient and kind. Yes? Are you open this Friday? Oh, really? Are you always open Fridays? If I come in Friday could you set aside False Mermaid for me? My daughter would really like to read it. Can you tell me the due dates for all my items again? No, on the other card. Do you need it again? Oh, I've wrapped it back in its red rubber band. Let's undo it." And so on. And so on. And so on.
Thursday, November 28, 2013
Thanksgiving
I am not one for much celebrating of Thanksgiving. I am happy enough and quite thankful for any day I can spend at home with my wife. This will be great enough pleasure for me. Whatever turkeys roam about my neighborhood (and there are, oddly, a few) they need fear nothing from me.
But because it is Thanksgiving, and because I write so much about my Library, I started thinking a little bit this week about what I am thankful about at my Library.
There are many things I am unthankful for. There are so many complaints and irritations at my job, nice, deep, rich veins of folly, destructive hierarchy, self satisfactions, and complacency at my Library. And I am delighted to mine away at them. They are an endless source of blog material and correction and comedy, all that buried garbage of a Library at work, brought up out of the earth and set shining like jewels in the sun, if I can. But when I sit down to reflect on what I am grateful for here at the Library, well, not to get all mushy, there is no mining required. It is all around me, everywhere, and in plain sight.
It is not the purview of this quiet, holiday post to make some great list of my Library appreciations. It is not so interesting to me as a study, and I have no need to see for myself such a list either. But unbidden, I started thinking that list, and it was long and easily at hand, as are so many other things in my life for which I am grateful, and one person, for whom I am infinitely more thankful even than all the rest. And so you will hear no complaint from me today. No proposition for improvement. No tale of woe. No satire, visions, or fabrications. I am content as is, and even if, possibly, likely, there is no greater being out there to hear my exclamations of appreciation, I am entirely satisfied to tell you, and myself, and to shout it to the wind and let it fly and scatter.
Happy Thanksgiving to you all.
But because it is Thanksgiving, and because I write so much about my Library, I started thinking a little bit this week about what I am thankful about at my Library.
There are many things I am unthankful for. There are so many complaints and irritations at my job, nice, deep, rich veins of folly, destructive hierarchy, self satisfactions, and complacency at my Library. And I am delighted to mine away at them. They are an endless source of blog material and correction and comedy, all that buried garbage of a Library at work, brought up out of the earth and set shining like jewels in the sun, if I can. But when I sit down to reflect on what I am grateful for here at the Library, well, not to get all mushy, there is no mining required. It is all around me, everywhere, and in plain sight.
It is not the purview of this quiet, holiday post to make some great list of my Library appreciations. It is not so interesting to me as a study, and I have no need to see for myself such a list either. But unbidden, I started thinking that list, and it was long and easily at hand, as are so many other things in my life for which I am grateful, and one person, for whom I am infinitely more thankful even than all the rest. And so you will hear no complaint from me today. No proposition for improvement. No tale of woe. No satire, visions, or fabrications. I am content as is, and even if, possibly, likely, there is no greater being out there to hear my exclamations of appreciation, I am entirely satisfied to tell you, and myself, and to shout it to the wind and let it fly and scatter.
Happy Thanksgiving to you all.
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
The one thing you cannot say on the internet
Perhaps it would be best if you think of this like a Zen Koan.
In all the internet, full of its hucksters, glory hounds, relentless and massive corporations seizing everything they can, amidst its endless, backwater, obscure dead ends, its trillions and trillions of shopping opportunities that are thicker than all the stars in the sky, its Greek Choruses, its ranks of silent watchers, and, perhaps most of all, it's millions of lost souls shouting their opinions at the tops of their lungs, there is one thing, and one thing only that stands unspoken. There is one thing that can never be spoken on all the internet, wherever it may be.
It is not an issue of sanctity. Not talent, respect nor fear. It simply cannot be spoken. It is an object of its nature. I would say it here if I could. Any number of commentators, bloggers, opinion makers and full time internet egomaniacs would do much to be the one to say it. There are people who would sacrifice everything to say it. Many have tried and fallen, forced back to screaming about politics or the best chocolate cake or the funny thing they saw that you saw too that everyone saw and loved and will forget forever, in a day, or an hour, or immediately. It would have been said if it were possible. It is not possible.
It has been said that the Tao that can be spoken is not the eternal Tao. Shall we say that this is like the eternal Tao? Yes, we will say it is like the eternal Tao, but only so long as we can have the caveat that this is less spiritual, less grand, and vastly more trivial. Nevertheless it should also be said that it does manage to steal its own tiny, tiny piece of eternal wisdom.
And so what can you do with this one thing, this last and only thing that cannot be said on the internet. It cannot be named here. Perhaps it cannot be named anywhere. But it does exist. If you spread your imagination wide enough, you can, with the lightest touch, hold it in your hands. You can, with grace and wisdom, wit and a light touch, carry it in your mind. You will not be able to look at it directly or it will disappear like it never was there. But keep it with you. It has a purpose. Let it color everything you see here. The shadow it casts is an illuminating shadow.
In all the internet, full of its hucksters, glory hounds, relentless and massive corporations seizing everything they can, amidst its endless, backwater, obscure dead ends, its trillions and trillions of shopping opportunities that are thicker than all the stars in the sky, its Greek Choruses, its ranks of silent watchers, and, perhaps most of all, it's millions of lost souls shouting their opinions at the tops of their lungs, there is one thing, and one thing only that stands unspoken. There is one thing that can never be spoken on all the internet, wherever it may be.
It is not an issue of sanctity. Not talent, respect nor fear. It simply cannot be spoken. It is an object of its nature. I would say it here if I could. Any number of commentators, bloggers, opinion makers and full time internet egomaniacs would do much to be the one to say it. There are people who would sacrifice everything to say it. Many have tried and fallen, forced back to screaming about politics or the best chocolate cake or the funny thing they saw that you saw too that everyone saw and loved and will forget forever, in a day, or an hour, or immediately. It would have been said if it were possible. It is not possible.
It has been said that the Tao that can be spoken is not the eternal Tao. Shall we say that this is like the eternal Tao? Yes, we will say it is like the eternal Tao, but only so long as we can have the caveat that this is less spiritual, less grand, and vastly more trivial. Nevertheless it should also be said that it does manage to steal its own tiny, tiny piece of eternal wisdom.
And so what can you do with this one thing, this last and only thing that cannot be said on the internet. It cannot be named here. Perhaps it cannot be named anywhere. But it does exist. If you spread your imagination wide enough, you can, with the lightest touch, hold it in your hands. You can, with grace and wisdom, wit and a light touch, carry it in your mind. You will not be able to look at it directly or it will disappear like it never was there. But keep it with you. It has a purpose. Let it color everything you see here. The shadow it casts is an illuminating shadow.
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
How to be funny in public
Have you longed to be a comedian about town, a nut, a fool, a secret font of wisdom, hilarious? That is, do you want to be funny? I advise against it. It's a long, hard, cold road. Fraught with perils, it can be dangerous and nerve wracking. But if you reject my first advice I won't abandon you. If you just have to make people laugh, if the comedian persona has clutched you in its ferocious paws, I say "Go for it!" Clearly you have no choice. But heed my advice below.
1. Set jokes will be your doom. My father used to ask all grocery store cashiers if they took Rubles. I heard that joke thousands of times. Was it new to each cashier? Mostly. Was it a bad joke? No, no, it's fine as a joke for our purposes. Did he perfect it through such intensive repetition? Perhaps. But still I must speak against it. You cannot keep running the same material without becoming complacent, unnatural. You've got to stay hungry, and you must always be testing new material or you won't notice it when people start humoring you all of the time instead of just some of the time.
2. Know your audience. Professional comedians complain about tough audiences, but I laugh at professional comedians! Their audience is made up of a specific sub group of people who at least theoretically like comedians and are even willing to pay to see them. Your audience is anyone! Anyone! Sure, some of them are up for a laugh, but some of them are easily insulted, some of them have almost no sense of humor, and some of them don't even know what to do when a joke happens and will stare at you, bewildered. You will need to instant read your audience. You will need to pitch jokes to their level (which you had to deduce only a second ago). You will need to adjust your level of daring to their level of daring (all jokes are daring, which means they can also, in the wrong context, end up as mean, offensive, disturbing, and/or inappropriate). And you may even need to guide them along in receiving your joke properly, perhaps with a twinkle or a chuckle that lets them know that, no, the director of your Library doesn't actually fly about in her own fleet of jets equipped with bowling alleys, you're just being wacky. Sometimes this is enough to let them know they can laugh, which may be all the stronger for the relief in it.
3. You cannot joke all the time. Joking thrives on its relation to the serious, to the real. Real life is like cream and comedy is like the air and whisking. If you whisk nothing you have nothing. But whisk the right amount of cream and you get whipped cream, which, of course, is hilarious. Keep whipping the whipped cream and you get butter, which is excellent on toast and is the famous secret of French cooking.
4. It's okay to challenge your audience. While it is imperative to know your audience (remember point two?) that doesn't mean you can't challenge their limits. Plus, you can only know your audience so much, and throwing out a wide net of material not only keeps them off balance and amuseable, but also helps you refine your material and become better able to actually read your audience in the first place. Writing here I have little or no opportunity to read you as my audience, and so my comedy approaches have been especially diverse. And so too it's a nice approach if in this sort of situation you can present a lot of challenging or minor material in a way that lets it fail without too much notice. For instance, an early joke in this piece was "...I laugh at professional comedians!" This was a joke far better than my usual standard, but also one that, if you missed it, you didn't stop and say "I didn't get that joke." You merely, possibly, didn't know there was a joke there in the first place. There is an added benefit here that once it's pointed out as a joke it's unmissable. As to the absurdist humor in point number three, what with the meaningless analogy to butter, it was even more challenging as far as comedy goes, and usually if I did that kind of joke in person I'd have to laugh winningly to assure people that I'm not a lunatic, I'm just being funny. But here, in text, since I can know that at the least you are the sort of person who would actually read all of this post, you might be up for a slightly bizarre and challenging burst of absurdist humor.
5. Try to be nice. This is a tough one because it cuts out at least 30 percent of your material off the top. Professionals perhaps can't afford this one, or, possibly, don't need the restriction due to the depersonalized and formalized relation of their work. You, however do need this, because even though it may seem like comedy comes first, it doesn't. Humanity comes first. Warm laughs are beautiful. Hard, brittle, exploding and snickering laughs are, well, great, I won't lie, but great like fast food; crappy if you actually are paying attention, obesity and cancer causing, and horrible to the world. So be careful. Besides, for all that professional comedians like to go on about the aggressiveness of comedy, its violence (i.e. I killed them out there) they're mostly wrong. You do not want to be a master jokester in order to express your hatred of the world and force people to laugh against their will. Really, you don't. You want to be funny because laughing is fun and sweet, soul purifying, unifying, wise, healthy, and full of love. You want to be funny because it it a force for good! So, remember that out there. And go knock 'em dead.
1. Set jokes will be your doom. My father used to ask all grocery store cashiers if they took Rubles. I heard that joke thousands of times. Was it new to each cashier? Mostly. Was it a bad joke? No, no, it's fine as a joke for our purposes. Did he perfect it through such intensive repetition? Perhaps. But still I must speak against it. You cannot keep running the same material without becoming complacent, unnatural. You've got to stay hungry, and you must always be testing new material or you won't notice it when people start humoring you all of the time instead of just some of the time.
2. Know your audience. Professional comedians complain about tough audiences, but I laugh at professional comedians! Their audience is made up of a specific sub group of people who at least theoretically like comedians and are even willing to pay to see them. Your audience is anyone! Anyone! Sure, some of them are up for a laugh, but some of them are easily insulted, some of them have almost no sense of humor, and some of them don't even know what to do when a joke happens and will stare at you, bewildered. You will need to instant read your audience. You will need to pitch jokes to their level (which you had to deduce only a second ago). You will need to adjust your level of daring to their level of daring (all jokes are daring, which means they can also, in the wrong context, end up as mean, offensive, disturbing, and/or inappropriate). And you may even need to guide them along in receiving your joke properly, perhaps with a twinkle or a chuckle that lets them know that, no, the director of your Library doesn't actually fly about in her own fleet of jets equipped with bowling alleys, you're just being wacky. Sometimes this is enough to let them know they can laugh, which may be all the stronger for the relief in it.
3. You cannot joke all the time. Joking thrives on its relation to the serious, to the real. Real life is like cream and comedy is like the air and whisking. If you whisk nothing you have nothing. But whisk the right amount of cream and you get whipped cream, which, of course, is hilarious. Keep whipping the whipped cream and you get butter, which is excellent on toast and is the famous secret of French cooking.
4. It's okay to challenge your audience. While it is imperative to know your audience (remember point two?) that doesn't mean you can't challenge their limits. Plus, you can only know your audience so much, and throwing out a wide net of material not only keeps them off balance and amuseable, but also helps you refine your material and become better able to actually read your audience in the first place. Writing here I have little or no opportunity to read you as my audience, and so my comedy approaches have been especially diverse. And so too it's a nice approach if in this sort of situation you can present a lot of challenging or minor material in a way that lets it fail without too much notice. For instance, an early joke in this piece was "...I laugh at professional comedians!" This was a joke far better than my usual standard, but also one that, if you missed it, you didn't stop and say "I didn't get that joke." You merely, possibly, didn't know there was a joke there in the first place. There is an added benefit here that once it's pointed out as a joke it's unmissable. As to the absurdist humor in point number three, what with the meaningless analogy to butter, it was even more challenging as far as comedy goes, and usually if I did that kind of joke in person I'd have to laugh winningly to assure people that I'm not a lunatic, I'm just being funny. But here, in text, since I can know that at the least you are the sort of person who would actually read all of this post, you might be up for a slightly bizarre and challenging burst of absurdist humor.
5. Try to be nice. This is a tough one because it cuts out at least 30 percent of your material off the top. Professionals perhaps can't afford this one, or, possibly, don't need the restriction due to the depersonalized and formalized relation of their work. You, however do need this, because even though it may seem like comedy comes first, it doesn't. Humanity comes first. Warm laughs are beautiful. Hard, brittle, exploding and snickering laughs are, well, great, I won't lie, but great like fast food; crappy if you actually are paying attention, obesity and cancer causing, and horrible to the world. So be careful. Besides, for all that professional comedians like to go on about the aggressiveness of comedy, its violence (i.e. I killed them out there) they're mostly wrong. You do not want to be a master jokester in order to express your hatred of the world and force people to laugh against their will. Really, you don't. You want to be funny because laughing is fun and sweet, soul purifying, unifying, wise, healthy, and full of love. You want to be funny because it it a force for good! So, remember that out there. And go knock 'em dead.
Monday, November 25, 2013
Calla Lillies at the Library
When things go missing at the Library I have learned not to jump to the conclusion that they have been stolen. My pessimistic nature used to lead me down that path over and over, whether with supplies (which I am in charge of here), items on the request shelves (even more than I used to, the patrons heavily gravitate towards the idea that their request has been stolen), or simply the items on our shelves that are supposed to be in, but aren't. Too often these missing material mysteries were solved with no thief at the end of them. Optimists of the world rest assured that sloppiness, human error, freak accident, and incompetence will blow petty thievery out of the water any day of the week.
Nevertheless, something here at my Library has gone missing and I cannot resist thinking of theft, despite all my better instincts.
Pens disappear from the front desk all the time. No, this is not yet the theft part. I don't attribute missing pens to outright theft. At most it's a kind of kleptomania that I'm content to categorize as accidental. The rare occasions (very rare) where I actually catch a patron walking off with one of our pens (where the caught people just seem so innocent), always reflects this accidental nature. Well, either that, or the thieves are excellent actors. But whatever the cause of all this pen disappearance, after many years I finally decided to adopt the common and well respected fake flower technique, wherein one attaches a fake flower soundly to a pen and it prevents people from casually walking off with it. A bit less than a year ago I was in a craft store and found some very nice fake orange roses on sale. They were even fake bedewed! Investing my own money I bought them and taped them to, mostly, our more expensive pens, all the sharpies and gels. They worked great. Our pen attrition rate vastly slowed and the only, minor, problem was that the little kids loved to pick the very convincing fake water droplets off the roses. Still, time takes its toll on everything, as well as maybe some of that drop picking, and after a long enough time our rose pens were either falling apart or faded away, so I decided it was time for a new crop of fake flowers.
Feeling the expense was fully justified, this time I ordered through the Library. The easiest way to do this was through Amazon. I found it difficult to find the sort of thing I was looking for, but after exhaustive searching eventually I settled on some fake, white calla lilies.
I will spare you my ordering travails, or the story about how I only got half the number I asked for, but when they arrived I was certain I had made the right choice. It turns out there is something wonderful about these calla lilies. It's not just that they look real, which they mostly do, but it's their weird magical quality of feeling real. These fake calla lilies are irresistible to the touch. And that is why, when after we had had our lily pens out at the front desk for only a few days, and I went to the desk and saw a pen with only the remains of the tape that held the flower on, I felt as if I had been robbed. Someone had taken a calla lily!
Yes, yes, perhaps my fake flower was not stolen. Surely there is some other explanation. All my experience tells me that there is a hidden, non-theft explanation for the disappearance of the calla lily. But in my heart I feel that someone just had to have one of those lovely fake flowers. They couldn't resist its radiant charms, and they stole it. They are leaving all our pens behind, just as I hoped, but they are walking away with our beautiful and (slightly) more valuable flowers.
Well, what can I say, I sort of blame myself. People are not totally terrible, but I have clearly thrown in their path an overwhelming and unreasonable temptation. As Henry Ward Beecher said: "All men are tempted. There is no man that lives that can't be broken down, provided it is the right temptation, put in the right spot." A beautiful fake calla lily, right out at the front desk of an institution where people are roughly free to take what they want, clearly, it's all too much.
Nevertheless, something here at my Library has gone missing and I cannot resist thinking of theft, despite all my better instincts.
Pens disappear from the front desk all the time. No, this is not yet the theft part. I don't attribute missing pens to outright theft. At most it's a kind of kleptomania that I'm content to categorize as accidental. The rare occasions (very rare) where I actually catch a patron walking off with one of our pens (where the caught people just seem so innocent), always reflects this accidental nature. Well, either that, or the thieves are excellent actors. But whatever the cause of all this pen disappearance, after many years I finally decided to adopt the common and well respected fake flower technique, wherein one attaches a fake flower soundly to a pen and it prevents people from casually walking off with it. A bit less than a year ago I was in a craft store and found some very nice fake orange roses on sale. They were even fake bedewed! Investing my own money I bought them and taped them to, mostly, our more expensive pens, all the sharpies and gels. They worked great. Our pen attrition rate vastly slowed and the only, minor, problem was that the little kids loved to pick the very convincing fake water droplets off the roses. Still, time takes its toll on everything, as well as maybe some of that drop picking, and after a long enough time our rose pens were either falling apart or faded away, so I decided it was time for a new crop of fake flowers.
Feeling the expense was fully justified, this time I ordered through the Library. The easiest way to do this was through Amazon. I found it difficult to find the sort of thing I was looking for, but after exhaustive searching eventually I settled on some fake, white calla lilies.
I will spare you my ordering travails, or the story about how I only got half the number I asked for, but when they arrived I was certain I had made the right choice. It turns out there is something wonderful about these calla lilies. It's not just that they look real, which they mostly do, but it's their weird magical quality of feeling real. These fake calla lilies are irresistible to the touch. And that is why, when after we had had our lily pens out at the front desk for only a few days, and I went to the desk and saw a pen with only the remains of the tape that held the flower on, I felt as if I had been robbed. Someone had taken a calla lily!
Yes, yes, perhaps my fake flower was not stolen. Surely there is some other explanation. All my experience tells me that there is a hidden, non-theft explanation for the disappearance of the calla lily. But in my heart I feel that someone just had to have one of those lovely fake flowers. They couldn't resist its radiant charms, and they stole it. They are leaving all our pens behind, just as I hoped, but they are walking away with our beautiful and (slightly) more valuable flowers.
Well, what can I say, I sort of blame myself. People are not totally terrible, but I have clearly thrown in their path an overwhelming and unreasonable temptation. As Henry Ward Beecher said: "All men are tempted. There is no man that lives that can't be broken down, provided it is the right temptation, put in the right spot." A beautiful fake calla lily, right out at the front desk of an institution where people are roughly free to take what they want, clearly, it's all too much.
Sunday, November 24, 2013
What I'm up to
If you read yesterday's post, the natural answer to today's
question about what I'm up to would be "Trouble." But, no, I'm not up
to too much trouble, really. In my role as the personification of the
clerkmanifesto I have been busying about my local Little Free Libraries.
Some time ago I embarked upon a project where I hand grafted masses of
clerkmanifesto essays into old weeded books, hand painted the covers,
and generally prepared bespoke clerkmanifesto books for dissemination to
the community at large. I have some pictures (here). The only problem
with these was that they were so laborious to make that, well, I still
haven't finished more than a few. So, as an alternative, I have put
together little themed journals of posts. These have gone much better.
They come in series of about 20 and I am working on the second volume
now. The first volume, called Forced to be Better, I have been
distributing into Little Free Libraries. I put them facing out of the little library windows to give them a starting advantage and
mostly let them find their own way in the world. In a corollary project I
have been collecting any books I find that are on my list of loved
books (here), and I have been putting them out into the wee libraries as
well. All of this has been giving me a much closer acquaintance with the
Little Free Libraries. This acquaintance has deepened my feelings about
them without particularly altering my sense of them.
Because Sundays here are casual days, I thought I'd try just switching over to more of a list mode to express what I adore about Little Free Libraries, followed by the bit about their problems, or really, their problem, as, basically, there is just the one problem when it comes to Little Free Libraries (LFLs).
So, the things I love:
1. Their mushroom nature. Little Free Libraries have sprouted madly in my neighborhoods, overnight, in the rain, in the sun, in the wind, in the freezing fog, at dawn, at dusk, but always, always more and more and more.
2. Their individuality. There does seem to be a nice, unifying website devoted to LFLs and for a lot of money I think you can even buy a Little Free Library. But of the twenty or so I have pretty easily tracked down around here I don't think I've found any pair that even comes close to a match. To my surprise I have sort of fixated on latches, and have found Libraries with hook and eye latches, wood pegs in holes, wood slides and wood rotating latches. There have been magnets, metal bolts and ones that stay closed because they're hinged at the top. There was a rotating knob and something that fitted and clicked. And these are just the latches!
3. They're Quixotic! Who are all these people going "Today I will put a house on a stick and it will work as a free Library!"? What a ridiculous idea. Dreamers one and all. It will never work! But they just do it anyway!
4. It's Anarchy! Heck, I'm just a bit of an Anarchist myself, and yet, seeing real anarchy in action in the world I get all confused. I become respectful of some authority that isn't even there. Aren't there some rules I'm supposed to follow? Isn't someone going to come out of the nearby house and start yelling at me? No and no, or, at least, I don't think they are.
5. They're so homely. Oh, the little houses on a pole are generally pretty cute, or homely in the prettiest sense of the word, but open them up and what a bland looking bunch of rubbish. Yet again, look closely at all the rubbish and you may find a favorite book in some crappy edition, a lost classic, a hidden gem, or, of course, most likely, just rubbish, which brings us to...
The Negative:
1. What a bunch of junk! Yes, I'm afraid LFLs need a lot of curating. As I said I have started putting things in Little Free Libraries, but I think they need a good bit of weeding more even than the positive additions. Weed your LFLs! How do you know that you're not being disrespectful and getting rid of someone else's carefully chosen favorite book? I say trust your instincts. If your gut tells you that New Analysis in Practical Agronomy 1962 was dumped rather than placed in your local LFL, go with your instincts. The situation is dire enough that we can all live with a mistake or two. Just, if it looks like a homemade little journal, maybe leave it in there, and face it prominently out toward the window.
Because Sundays here are casual days, I thought I'd try just switching over to more of a list mode to express what I adore about Little Free Libraries, followed by the bit about their problems, or really, their problem, as, basically, there is just the one problem when it comes to Little Free Libraries (LFLs).
So, the things I love:
1. Their mushroom nature. Little Free Libraries have sprouted madly in my neighborhoods, overnight, in the rain, in the sun, in the wind, in the freezing fog, at dawn, at dusk, but always, always more and more and more.
2. Their individuality. There does seem to be a nice, unifying website devoted to LFLs and for a lot of money I think you can even buy a Little Free Library. But of the twenty or so I have pretty easily tracked down around here I don't think I've found any pair that even comes close to a match. To my surprise I have sort of fixated on latches, and have found Libraries with hook and eye latches, wood pegs in holes, wood slides and wood rotating latches. There have been magnets, metal bolts and ones that stay closed because they're hinged at the top. There was a rotating knob and something that fitted and clicked. And these are just the latches!
3. They're Quixotic! Who are all these people going "Today I will put a house on a stick and it will work as a free Library!"? What a ridiculous idea. Dreamers one and all. It will never work! But they just do it anyway!
4. It's Anarchy! Heck, I'm just a bit of an Anarchist myself, and yet, seeing real anarchy in action in the world I get all confused. I become respectful of some authority that isn't even there. Aren't there some rules I'm supposed to follow? Isn't someone going to come out of the nearby house and start yelling at me? No and no, or, at least, I don't think they are.
5. They're so homely. Oh, the little houses on a pole are generally pretty cute, or homely in the prettiest sense of the word, but open them up and what a bland looking bunch of rubbish. Yet again, look closely at all the rubbish and you may find a favorite book in some crappy edition, a lost classic, a hidden gem, or, of course, most likely, just rubbish, which brings us to...
The Negative:
1. What a bunch of junk! Yes, I'm afraid LFLs need a lot of curating. As I said I have started putting things in Little Free Libraries, but I think they need a good bit of weeding more even than the positive additions. Weed your LFLs! How do you know that you're not being disrespectful and getting rid of someone else's carefully chosen favorite book? I say trust your instincts. If your gut tells you that New Analysis in Practical Agronomy 1962 was dumped rather than placed in your local LFL, go with your instincts. The situation is dire enough that we can all live with a mistake or two. Just, if it looks like a homemade little journal, maybe leave it in there, and face it prominently out toward the window.
Saturday, November 23, 2013
Out of the mouths of Library Volunteers
I like working with the Library volunteers, or, I like working around them. It's not simply the diversity of that volunteer population that I enjoy, but the way some of that diversity can lie hidden under the leveling qualities of all the mundane, but useful, volunteer tasks. I am nearly as likely to find that some regular volunteer lives in a group home and has developmental disabilities as I am to find one was a top surgeon at the Mayo Clinic. Presented with the both of them, and no prior knowledge, I may be hard pressed to say who is who. They both seem very good at putting DVDs in order. They both seem nice.
One volunteer here, who I see much less frequently these days, is very clearly developmentally disabled. I think she has Down Syndrome. She can't be much more than four feet tall. She is also very round. She charges around like a bowling ball, head down, a dynamo. I've always liked her a bit. Her communication skills are pretty limited and mainly revolve around an interest in free candy and coming up to me, putting her hands on her hips, peering up at me in dramatic mock admonishment, wagging a finger, and saying "You're trouble."
I have to admit there is a certain amount of allowance going on here from me. I am not one to normally look so warmly on teasing jokes about me unless they are truly acid free. But I do think this person is entitled to a lower, though not removed, level of responsibility. And if we can maybe come together here and agree to the many, many, glorious virtues of trouble, I am comfortable enough saying that, wow, she's really got a point there. She's got quite a point there indeed. And so there it is again. The surface tells us she is a disabled person who can barely put a sentence together, but search within that and we find a diviner of truth.
One volunteer here, who I see much less frequently these days, is very clearly developmentally disabled. I think she has Down Syndrome. She can't be much more than four feet tall. She is also very round. She charges around like a bowling ball, head down, a dynamo. I've always liked her a bit. Her communication skills are pretty limited and mainly revolve around an interest in free candy and coming up to me, putting her hands on her hips, peering up at me in dramatic mock admonishment, wagging a finger, and saying "You're trouble."
I have to admit there is a certain amount of allowance going on here from me. I am not one to normally look so warmly on teasing jokes about me unless they are truly acid free. But I do think this person is entitled to a lower, though not removed, level of responsibility. And if we can maybe come together here and agree to the many, many, glorious virtues of trouble, I am comfortable enough saying that, wow, she's really got a point there. She's got quite a point there indeed. And so there it is again. The surface tells us she is a disabled person who can barely put a sentence together, but search within that and we find a diviner of truth.
Friday, November 22, 2013
No cat news blues
I have been very eager to bring you the latest update on kafka, the Library cat. Unfortunately there has been nothing to report. No, seriously, there has been so nothing to report that I feel compelled to tell you how very nothing there is to report.
A few days ago though there was plenty to report. Young kafka, who everyday seems to be just a tiny bit less a kitten and a tiny bit more a cat, was not so long ago cutting his usual wide swath. On Sunday kafka mauled the thin skin of an old lady's forearm so thoroughly as to leave a couple guitar's worth of claw marks, including, when I arrived on the scene, at least three of which were trickling blood. I was almost violently sick with worry about what kind of trouble this could bring down on dear kafka's future. Fortunately the old lady was a familiar of cats who chuckled warmly at her savaged arm and considered it to be a kind of punctuation to kafka's affection. She suggested she had perhaps played a bit too rough. I was fully in accord with her, but am aware things could have gone very differently. Perhaps we can say kafka is down to eight lives.
And speaking of the peculiar nature of cat affection, on Monday, kafka sweetly presented the Library service desk with the generous and savage gift of a headless bird. Though naturally appreciated it raised the mystery of where kafka, who everyone thought had never been outside, got it. Young kafka's resourcefulness appears to be revealing in deep layers. Monday night, kafka, who is a bit of a gourmand, was reported to be eating a fish in the teen room. When we went to investigate, kafka had disappeared. He remained unseen all through Tuesday until, concerned, I tracked him down to a canvas bin, where apparently he had curled up and settled down for an quick nap that has now lasted for at least two, but possibly more than three full days and nights.
Actually, I'll go check on him right now. Don't expect too much.
He's purring. I pet him and he's quietly purring in his sleep. Still in the canvas bin he seems untired. I don't think he could possibly be tired unless all the sleeping has worn him out. To tell you the truth, I think he's just sleeping for the fun of it. I understand.
A few days ago though there was plenty to report. Young kafka, who everyday seems to be just a tiny bit less a kitten and a tiny bit more a cat, was not so long ago cutting his usual wide swath. On Sunday kafka mauled the thin skin of an old lady's forearm so thoroughly as to leave a couple guitar's worth of claw marks, including, when I arrived on the scene, at least three of which were trickling blood. I was almost violently sick with worry about what kind of trouble this could bring down on dear kafka's future. Fortunately the old lady was a familiar of cats who chuckled warmly at her savaged arm and considered it to be a kind of punctuation to kafka's affection. She suggested she had perhaps played a bit too rough. I was fully in accord with her, but am aware things could have gone very differently. Perhaps we can say kafka is down to eight lives.
And speaking of the peculiar nature of cat affection, on Monday, kafka sweetly presented the Library service desk with the generous and savage gift of a headless bird. Though naturally appreciated it raised the mystery of where kafka, who everyone thought had never been outside, got it. Young kafka's resourcefulness appears to be revealing in deep layers. Monday night, kafka, who is a bit of a gourmand, was reported to be eating a fish in the teen room. When we went to investigate, kafka had disappeared. He remained unseen all through Tuesday until, concerned, I tracked him down to a canvas bin, where apparently he had curled up and settled down for an quick nap that has now lasted for at least two, but possibly more than three full days and nights.
Actually, I'll go check on him right now. Don't expect too much.
He's purring. I pet him and he's quietly purring in his sleep. Still in the canvas bin he seems untired. I don't think he could possibly be tired unless all the sleeping has worn him out. To tell you the truth, I think he's just sleeping for the fun of it. I understand.
Thursday, November 21, 2013
Secret war with librarian
I am in a long running secret war with whoever officially puts out the featured, display books at the ends of the fiction and genre fiction shelves. My opponent, a librarian, puts out moderately sharp looking (for the Library) hardcover books, regardless of content. I counter by putting out books based on sheer, proselytizing, passionate, fanboy love. I'm losing.
Yes, those nice, squared off, hardback, largely unstained copies of Elizabeth Berg and David Baldacci are flying out of the display holders, while my bent, rough around the edges, paperback Richard Brautigans just sit there, day after day, looking forlorn and ever so small. I think the Richard Brautigan book is waiting for Charlie Brown to come along and bring it back to the Peanuts gang, who will then call him a blockhead, and say "Only Charlie Brown could go to a Library full of wonderful hardcover books and come back with a stupid beat up paperback about Watermelons! Of all the Charlie Browns, you're the Charlie Browniest!"
So, style has its triumphs over substance. Aye, style clubs substance like a baby seal. But I vow that I will not be deterred. I will take this woeful little Richard Brautigan book downstairs, carefully apply a little 845 book tape, erase some stains that I can, polish it up a little, and it's not so bad. Quite a nice little book really. Endearing. And if you open it up, oh, if you open it up, and read just a little... well, look for it, it's always there.
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
The seven hidden reasons for visiting the front desk
Most people come to the front desk of the Library for the usual things. They want to pay fines, get cards, request a book, find out where something is. They want information, or to return something, or to inform us of something. But underneath all these business-as-usual visits there sometimes lurk secret motivations, and among our wildly diverse visitors can be found a dizzying array of hidden reasons for these front desk visits. While the mundane issues of Library transactions are the always, and sometimes only, issues present, these secret reasons lurk underneath so often that I can only list some of the most common ones here. Any more and we could be here all day! You don't want to be here all day, do you?
You do? Well, I am touched. Gosh. May I mention here that my prose is deeply layered, and if you would like to be here all day, you could read this over and over, extracting new meanings at each go. Memorizing, a la a poem, and then reciting this post to friends could also be satisfying in this regard. Just, you know, as a heads up.
And so with that taken care of I present you with the seven most frequent secret reasons to visit the front desk at the Library.
1. Sheer, unremitting, abject loneliness.
2. In the hope that somehow something good will happen, kind of like a free slot machine!
3. To get a general feel for the place. Want to know if our library is welcoming, cold, friendly, weird, or carnivalesque? You need merely ask for a pencil, or whether we have any F. W. Murnau movies, and you should get a fair glimpse of what you really want to know.
4. To establish oneself as a member of the Library community and not just one of the people who anonymously come in to play colored ball games on the computers.
5. Fishing, as in, when a person is sure there is a real reason for coming to the desk, but they just don't know it yet. They figure it will emerge at some point during their payment of a 10 cent fine in pennies, or perhaps during their inquires about the Library "closed" dates in the upcoming years.
6. People are just naturally drawn to where the party is. Woot.
7. Someone wants to let us know that they're up to no good and make sure we're okay with that.
You do? Well, I am touched. Gosh. May I mention here that my prose is deeply layered, and if you would like to be here all day, you could read this over and over, extracting new meanings at each go. Memorizing, a la a poem, and then reciting this post to friends could also be satisfying in this regard. Just, you know, as a heads up.
And so with that taken care of I present you with the seven most frequent secret reasons to visit the front desk at the Library.
1. Sheer, unremitting, abject loneliness.
2. In the hope that somehow something good will happen, kind of like a free slot machine!
3. To get a general feel for the place. Want to know if our library is welcoming, cold, friendly, weird, or carnivalesque? You need merely ask for a pencil, or whether we have any F. W. Murnau movies, and you should get a fair glimpse of what you really want to know.
4. To establish oneself as a member of the Library community and not just one of the people who anonymously come in to play colored ball games on the computers.
5. Fishing, as in, when a person is sure there is a real reason for coming to the desk, but they just don't know it yet. They figure it will emerge at some point during their payment of a 10 cent fine in pennies, or perhaps during their inquires about the Library "closed" dates in the upcoming years.
6. People are just naturally drawn to where the party is. Woot.
7. Someone wants to let us know that they're up to no good and make sure we're okay with that.
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
For the stars
Sometimes you just have to try.
Tuesday morning and the eyes of a restless internet turn to me. Did you know that everything in the world is equally tiny and magnificent? These words you are reading are lost in the greatest sea of text ever created, a vast, unfathomable ocean. Everything is meaningless, unaccountable, unreal, repetitive, and swallowed up by the heaving oceanic movements of time and the wild cacophony of a billion voices that flatten everything.
And yet here we are. With these words flooding our heads. Our very reality is all caught up in this, vision, this crystallization of letters. For myself I am unaccountably trying to share some dream, some sense of some mystery always clawing up from the great underneath. The skin of the world itself can fall into doubt, but there is always an underneath. Even the most homely writer rides that. I ride that, trying to direct some primordial, unfathomable, and bottomless force into slender words, and catch a terrible fragment at best.
And what are you doing here?
The same. You are here for the same.
And how can I say what you are here for? Well, I have always been prone to fits of wild confidence. Here is one now. We are wrangling volcanoes. We are volcano wranglers. We bring up the burning lava, the molten rock. We guide it as best we can, but bringing it up from the great underneath is the key thing. The lava hardens in the cool air and the light of day. It turns to stone and stone rises from the ocean, rises from itself, and we stand higher and higher. It is a slow and wild, glorious and terrifying endeavor, maybe hopeless too. But for all our vast tricks and talents, we are only earthbound creatures. It is the only way we have to reach the stars.
Tuesday morning and the eyes of a restless internet turn to me. Did you know that everything in the world is equally tiny and magnificent? These words you are reading are lost in the greatest sea of text ever created, a vast, unfathomable ocean. Everything is meaningless, unaccountable, unreal, repetitive, and swallowed up by the heaving oceanic movements of time and the wild cacophony of a billion voices that flatten everything.
And yet here we are. With these words flooding our heads. Our very reality is all caught up in this, vision, this crystallization of letters. For myself I am unaccountably trying to share some dream, some sense of some mystery always clawing up from the great underneath. The skin of the world itself can fall into doubt, but there is always an underneath. Even the most homely writer rides that. I ride that, trying to direct some primordial, unfathomable, and bottomless force into slender words, and catch a terrible fragment at best.
And what are you doing here?
The same. You are here for the same.
And how can I say what you are here for? Well, I have always been prone to fits of wild confidence. Here is one now. We are wrangling volcanoes. We are volcano wranglers. We bring up the burning lava, the molten rock. We guide it as best we can, but bringing it up from the great underneath is the key thing. The lava hardens in the cool air and the light of day. It turns to stone and stone rises from the ocean, rises from itself, and we stand higher and higher. It is a slow and wild, glorious and terrifying endeavor, maybe hopeless too. But for all our vast tricks and talents, we are only earthbound creatures. It is the only way we have to reach the stars.
Monday, November 18, 2013
Conversation
One of our regular volunteers says to me, with amused pleasure "Roy thinks yams are yucky and said he won't eat any at Thanksgiving this year."
I don't think I have ever heard of this Roy before, have no context for his yams, and have no idea what any of this refers to. But I know this volunteer. She is fairly capable as a volunteer, consistent, reasonably dedicated. I don't know what her developmental issues are, but whatever they are they make talking with her decidedly non generic. I like her well enough. She is neither a favorite of mine nor an irritant. Judging from the rate and length of our exchanges I suppose I am neither an irritant nor a favorite to her either. I do know that talking with her works best if I apply a great deal of energy to it. I have found that conversation has a power to carry you along. It is full of rhythms and waves. You can ride it. You can rest in the other's speech. You can dance along to the call and response of it, all the sparks and light bulbs. But this, with her, is not really conversation. It's a lot more like taking turns saying things. Nevertheless it has its rhythmic, tennis like qualities to it, too, in it's own way. I mean, if you think of it as her hitting a ball to me, me hitting it back, her ignoring the return and hitting me a new ball. You see, I am nearly certain that my responses do not affect what she says next to me in any way.
I will illustrate with two examples.
Example one. I respond "Who is this Roy and what on earth does he have against yams? Can I meet him? Is he here now?"
She replies "He's so funny. Last year he wouldn't take off his shoes!"
Or, example number two. I respond "I think it would be interesting to hollow out a yam through a small access hole and cram marshmallows into the center. Then close up the yam and deep fry it in peanut oil. Wait, are we talking about yams or sweet potatoes?"
She replies "He's so funny. Last year he wouldn't take off his shoes!"
I'm okay with this. It's a dynamic that I feel underlies more library conversations than might at first be apparent. Most people are better at pretending to listen. Well, this volunteer will have none of that! And bless her for her lack of pretense. Bring me more of these crazy Roy stories. I have some stories too!
I don't think I have ever heard of this Roy before, have no context for his yams, and have no idea what any of this refers to. But I know this volunteer. She is fairly capable as a volunteer, consistent, reasonably dedicated. I don't know what her developmental issues are, but whatever they are they make talking with her decidedly non generic. I like her well enough. She is neither a favorite of mine nor an irritant. Judging from the rate and length of our exchanges I suppose I am neither an irritant nor a favorite to her either. I do know that talking with her works best if I apply a great deal of energy to it. I have found that conversation has a power to carry you along. It is full of rhythms and waves. You can ride it. You can rest in the other's speech. You can dance along to the call and response of it, all the sparks and light bulbs. But this, with her, is not really conversation. It's a lot more like taking turns saying things. Nevertheless it has its rhythmic, tennis like qualities to it, too, in it's own way. I mean, if you think of it as her hitting a ball to me, me hitting it back, her ignoring the return and hitting me a new ball. You see, I am nearly certain that my responses do not affect what she says next to me in any way.
I will illustrate with two examples.
Example one. I respond "Who is this Roy and what on earth does he have against yams? Can I meet him? Is he here now?"
She replies "He's so funny. Last year he wouldn't take off his shoes!"
Or, example number two. I respond "I think it would be interesting to hollow out a yam through a small access hole and cram marshmallows into the center. Then close up the yam and deep fry it in peanut oil. Wait, are we talking about yams or sweet potatoes?"
She replies "He's so funny. Last year he wouldn't take off his shoes!"
I'm okay with this. It's a dynamic that I feel underlies more library conversations than might at first be apparent. Most people are better at pretending to listen. Well, this volunteer will have none of that! And bless her for her lack of pretense. Bring me more of these crazy Roy stories. I have some stories too!
Sunday, November 17, 2013
Trouble in Co-op Land
We go a little far afield on this one, to the politics of my local co-ops. It violates my oft broken "no politics because it makes me froth at the mouth" rule. I have put it a bit out of the way by posting it here on a Sunday. I sent it to my (very) local paper. What else can I tell you to encourage you not to read it? Oh, it's mostly humorless, outside of a few, sharp, quiet, possibly savage digs at a co-op board and a co-op CEO. You should know the following though, I mean, if you're going to stick this one out, which I advise against. I really love my co-ops. I love food, and they are so far and away the best place to get amazing, actual food, where I live that they dwarf everything else. And I love cooperative ventures, like libraries! And so it always will break my heart when some cooperative institution, whether library or grocery store, starts looking all admiringly at the capitalist shiny bangle organizations that are usually in full and heedless control of everything.
So, here it is:
There is an old story in which a man comes home, beaten down from a hard day at work, and on the issues of the day he is a fiery leftist, sympathetic to the poor and downtrodden. But as the pleasures of home are introduced to him his positions moderate. In what turns out to be a comfortable lifestyle, surrounded by people who indulge him, the man eats a rich meal, is tended to by others, and loses all sympathy for the oppressed, even to the extent that includes, at least somewhat, his working self from earlier in the day. He ends the day full, unsympathetic, and very conservative in his views.
There is nothing wrong with comfort or satisfaction. They are wonderful things and fine pursuits, but they do have their dangers; complacency, coldness, greed, and self-satisfaction have a pronounced tendency to creep in around their edges. I see troubling early indications of this at my local co-operative food stores.
I have lived in these Cities for more than 20 years now, and during that time I have always belonged to at least one co-op. I and my wife have done the vast majority of our grocery shopping at these often wonderful stores. I have watched them grow and thrive and expand. And I have always been pleased and proud to be part of such a brilliant, against-the-odds, series of collective enterprises. These are like business versions of Libraries, but without the government umbrella, just, gathered together in the wild. Self supporting food shopping, bypassing government, dancing with capitalism, and going straight to the benefits and power of collectivity. I am currently a member at the Wedge and at the Seward. It is at these two Co-ops where I suddenly find new things, common in the culture at large, but traditionally anathema to the very spirit of co-ops, creeping in at the edges.
The first issue is at the Wedge, and seems minor, but is also disturbing in its vision. They hired a CEO. Not a general manager. Not even a President. A CEO. The position and term CEO invokes in every way the image of corporate organization, top down management, and high gear capitalism. The disconnect between the collective and cooperative nature of the Wedge and its purported goals, co-op values of democracy and equality, egalitarianism and equity, and a generic, corporatist, and frankly clueless term like CEO is enormous. If it is true that Wedge CEO Josh Resnick's duties at the Wedge are best, or even legally described as those of a CEO, perhaps it should call into question what his duties are. And even if it does not call into question those duties the term nevertheless rankles. It has the feel of a Republic calling their leader King. It may be meant perhaps charmingly or affectionately, but there is a real feeling of sycophancy in it. And using the language, and possibly the structure, of the very things we are trying to dismantle is never the way to dismantle them. It is dangerous because it starts to erode our own identity and mission. If we wish to aggrandize our leader in name, what compensation packages and powers will slowly and ever so quietly seem appropriate to go with such a title. I do not know Josh Resnick. He may be great for the Wedge. But I do know he has a deep background in marketing at General Mills. People change, and CEO Resnick has done different, more positive jobs since then, but his glossy position title of CEO certainly evokes the term "co-opt" more easily than "co-op", and his Linked In profile seems alarmingly content to cast CEO of the Wedge as a natural progression from mercenarily marketing mass produced, heavily processed food, rather than as a rejection of the same.
Over at our Seward Co-op the new problems seem similar, though they play out differently. The Seward community just passed a proposal (498 to 365) to compensate its board members several hundred dollars a month. That a barely thinking public might choose, in a time of many financial and expansion challenges, to pay high level volunteers shows a kind of sloppy, well fed sympathy for the more prominent and influential among them. That the board itself would put this to a vote suggests a self-interest anathema to being on a co-op board. When poorer members of the community need help, the Seward finds ways and systems to try and help them, they give money to organizations, they stock food shelves, they provide education. For members of the co-op board, an always sought after, and formerly volunteer position, we just give them a bunch of money. This is business as usual culturally, but it is sad to see at a co-op, which, let me say it again, prides itself on issues of democracy, equality, equity, and solidarity. We give money to people who have it because they deserve it, and we carefully dole out precious resources to help people in need pull themselves up by their bootstraps. It is a sad surprise to get that Republican feel at my local co-op.
In all my years of Seward membership I don't recall ever getting the opportunity to vote on a proposal for a ten percent raise for all non managerial staff at the Seward. It's an interesting idea and I'd like to see the former volunteers on the board put that one forward. I think our community money would be better spent there. I know it would be expensive. I'm willing to cut back on some of the co-op's offered classes, outreach, marketing, board compensation, and CEO salary. That would express co-op values. And if the board or CEOs really can't get by, they can stock a little lettuce. If it's really bad they can go back to test marketing yoplait flavors. I am sure they will be richly rewarded.
So, here it is:
There is an old story in which a man comes home, beaten down from a hard day at work, and on the issues of the day he is a fiery leftist, sympathetic to the poor and downtrodden. But as the pleasures of home are introduced to him his positions moderate. In what turns out to be a comfortable lifestyle, surrounded by people who indulge him, the man eats a rich meal, is tended to by others, and loses all sympathy for the oppressed, even to the extent that includes, at least somewhat, his working self from earlier in the day. He ends the day full, unsympathetic, and very conservative in his views.
There is nothing wrong with comfort or satisfaction. They are wonderful things and fine pursuits, but they do have their dangers; complacency, coldness, greed, and self-satisfaction have a pronounced tendency to creep in around their edges. I see troubling early indications of this at my local co-operative food stores.
I have lived in these Cities for more than 20 years now, and during that time I have always belonged to at least one co-op. I and my wife have done the vast majority of our grocery shopping at these often wonderful stores. I have watched them grow and thrive and expand. And I have always been pleased and proud to be part of such a brilliant, against-the-odds, series of collective enterprises. These are like business versions of Libraries, but without the government umbrella, just, gathered together in the wild. Self supporting food shopping, bypassing government, dancing with capitalism, and going straight to the benefits and power of collectivity. I am currently a member at the Wedge and at the Seward. It is at these two Co-ops where I suddenly find new things, common in the culture at large, but traditionally anathema to the very spirit of co-ops, creeping in at the edges.
The first issue is at the Wedge, and seems minor, but is also disturbing in its vision. They hired a CEO. Not a general manager. Not even a President. A CEO. The position and term CEO invokes in every way the image of corporate organization, top down management, and high gear capitalism. The disconnect between the collective and cooperative nature of the Wedge and its purported goals, co-op values of democracy and equality, egalitarianism and equity, and a generic, corporatist, and frankly clueless term like CEO is enormous. If it is true that Wedge CEO Josh Resnick's duties at the Wedge are best, or even legally described as those of a CEO, perhaps it should call into question what his duties are. And even if it does not call into question those duties the term nevertheless rankles. It has the feel of a Republic calling their leader King. It may be meant perhaps charmingly or affectionately, but there is a real feeling of sycophancy in it. And using the language, and possibly the structure, of the very things we are trying to dismantle is never the way to dismantle them. It is dangerous because it starts to erode our own identity and mission. If we wish to aggrandize our leader in name, what compensation packages and powers will slowly and ever so quietly seem appropriate to go with such a title. I do not know Josh Resnick. He may be great for the Wedge. But I do know he has a deep background in marketing at General Mills. People change, and CEO Resnick has done different, more positive jobs since then, but his glossy position title of CEO certainly evokes the term "co-opt" more easily than "co-op", and his Linked In profile seems alarmingly content to cast CEO of the Wedge as a natural progression from mercenarily marketing mass produced, heavily processed food, rather than as a rejection of the same.
Over at our Seward Co-op the new problems seem similar, though they play out differently. The Seward community just passed a proposal (498 to 365) to compensate its board members several hundred dollars a month. That a barely thinking public might choose, in a time of many financial and expansion challenges, to pay high level volunteers shows a kind of sloppy, well fed sympathy for the more prominent and influential among them. That the board itself would put this to a vote suggests a self-interest anathema to being on a co-op board. When poorer members of the community need help, the Seward finds ways and systems to try and help them, they give money to organizations, they stock food shelves, they provide education. For members of the co-op board, an always sought after, and formerly volunteer position, we just give them a bunch of money. This is business as usual culturally, but it is sad to see at a co-op, which, let me say it again, prides itself on issues of democracy, equality, equity, and solidarity. We give money to people who have it because they deserve it, and we carefully dole out precious resources to help people in need pull themselves up by their bootstraps. It is a sad surprise to get that Republican feel at my local co-op.
In all my years of Seward membership I don't recall ever getting the opportunity to vote on a proposal for a ten percent raise for all non managerial staff at the Seward. It's an interesting idea and I'd like to see the former volunteers on the board put that one forward. I think our community money would be better spent there. I know it would be expensive. I'm willing to cut back on some of the co-op's offered classes, outreach, marketing, board compensation, and CEO salary. That would express co-op values. And if the board or CEOs really can't get by, they can stock a little lettuce. If it's really bad they can go back to test marketing yoplait flavors. I am sure they will be richly rewarded.
Saturday, November 16, 2013
In my neighborhood
As
a more than decade long resident of my neighborhood it,
at some point, became apparent to me that there were loads of nice
straight sidewalks running all over the place. I decided at some
point that it might be fun to make use of these sidewalks. It turns
out I had a reasonably good time on them, so now, when the thirst for
adventure seizes me, I strap on my shoes, which seem almost as if
they could have been engineered for these so-called sidewalks, and I
walk around. I walk up the sidewalks and I walk down the sidewalks. I
cross the street to new sidewalks. I am not sure if this is how one
is supposed to use sidewalks. They were possibly designed as
decorative fringes for our roads. Their rakishly contrasting color,
all light to the road's darkness, certainly suggests it. Or perhaps
these sidewalks were designed to give us something to scrape snow off
of, as a kind of public health effort by the city to get us out of
the house for a bit in the winter to make sure we get fresh air and a
bit of cardiovascular exercise. But whatever the intended use of the
mysterious sidewalk is, I like to walk on them, preferably with my
wife, who is extraordinarily good company. So I do. I go outside and
I walk on them.
And
now we come to the traditional point when your folksy, sidewalk walking blogger would typically
tell you about all the wonderful things you can see out there on the
sidewalks of your neighborhood, about all the wonderful people you can
meet just by going out and walking your local sidewalks, the exotic
flora, crafty and intriguingly out of place wild animals, and generally fascinating encounters with the world at
large, all to be had on the world of sidewalks.
But
I will not be telling you about these things.
“Why
not?” You ask. "One develops certain expectations when writers start talking about walking around their neighborhood!"
I won't tell you because I'm a rebel! And also because I have sworn to tell you the truth, except when I am rebelling against my vows and not telling you the truth. But I have vowed to only lie to you in a way that reveals the truth! So I
will tell you the truth, even if it is terribly shocking when it rears up on its quiet, enormous paws and calmly says:
There
is nothing much going on out there on the sidewalks.
Nope, not much at all.
Nope, not much at all.
Oh
it snows and it rains on the sidewalks, leaves fall and pile up and
break down. It's neat stuff sure, but I think it's the kind of thing you can see from your windows if you've just got to. Ice
forms over the sidewalks. A cat might visit me out there. I can pet
it. It's soft. But you could just keep a cat of your own who you are free to pet in
the privacy of your own home anytime you want. Or just drive to a library. Each one is equipped, by Library of Congress mandate, with precisely one bona fide cat. Every rare once in
awhile I can, just by walking about, see something like a turkey, poking around some
neighbor's side yard. It happened to me today in fact. It was a big, shiny turkey! It's amusing and interesting, but seriously,
it's not going to kill you to miss that sort of thing. Sometimes there are pretty
flowers or plants growing around, but I doubt that they're some big
super rare orchids or anything. They're plants. I doubt you can even
eat most of them. Though I do hear hostas are edible! There are clouds. There's definitely the occasional person to run
into out on the sidewalks, and they seem nice enough, but, first of
all, not to shatter your warm and exalted feelings towards the human race, but, the fact is that if you meet one stranger
you've pretty much met them all. More or less. Someone had to say it. I said it. No, seriously.
And, second, I believe I mentioned that my wife is extraordinarily
good company, so I'd rather talk to her anyway. Perhaps you have
someone you're as enthusiastic about in your own abode? I hope so. But
even if not, those of us loitering about the neighborhood sidewalks
might not be as thrilling and receptive as you might think.
So what I'm saying is, you can bop around on the sidewalks if you want. Go up the sidewalk, come down the sidewalk. Cross the street to a different, but very similar sidewalk. You can go to the Library, stumble over to a park or a bar or a cafe. You can walk clean round the planet, maybe pacing on the boat parts. But you don't have to. Nothing important is happening anywhere. Nothing. So stay in if you like. I can keep an eye on it all for you.
So what I'm saying is, you can bop around on the sidewalks if you want. Go up the sidewalk, come down the sidewalk. Cross the street to a different, but very similar sidewalk. You can go to the Library, stumble over to a park or a bar or a cafe. You can walk clean round the planet, maybe pacing on the boat parts. But you don't have to. Nothing important is happening anywhere. Nothing. So stay in if you like. I can keep an eye on it all for you.
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