The concise dream

Yesterday a reader's fantasy came upon me: What if every book I encountered was exactly the length of my interest in it? That could be a lovely little bit of magic. No more bogging down in the text. No more skimming or hanging in there, hoping it would get better. No more reading, bored, because I forgot how to stop. No more searching through book after book after book trying to find something I like. I would like everything.

But though I am a dreamer, I cannot but help ever bringing a realistic turn to all my dreams. And with that realism I understand that while there would be many, many books for me, most of them would be terribly short.

I'd still take it. It's only fair- to the precise length of my interest. It's how I write too.

For a good book

There sure are a lot of books. Especially when one works at a library. I work at a library and I am fascinated. Seriously, I am wildly, deeply fascinated by every single book here. Meaty, pretty, battered, interesting things. I would read them all!

Some I read the spine, some I don't. Some I pick up, some I don't. Some I open, some I don't. I would read them all. If only...

...If only they were all the exact length of my interest.

I am writing to you now facing a wall of roughly a thousand books. And there are a thousand books at my back. We have, very roughly, 2,000 books in a row here. Fourteen rows in fiction, so 28,000 books or so in all. And at the precise length of my interest I would not turn down a single one.

Most would be a sentence or two, a paragraph. To open a book and find two or three pages would be a delight. And if I pulled off a book with heft to it? If the spine was full of paper? If I opened a book to find page after page of white and black in its mysterious, intelligible patterns, all numbering on and on into the the hundreds?

Oh how my heart would pound.

Judgemental

A co-worker I was at the front desk with misinterpreted some small event and wanted to know if library cards can be restricted from checking out video games.

"No." I said. But I didn't feel it was the full detailed answer I like to give, so I added "But a parent can fill out a form to put restrictions on their child's card. So, technically, yes." But now I was on a roll so I added "But I have only ever seen bad, crazy parents put any restrictions on their child's card."

She said "You're very judgmental."

And then she took an excruciatingly long time to register two people for library cards, over complicating the whole thing and telling them an endless litany of pointless information, while I had to handle all the work of the front desk for the next 45 minutes.

A short observation

I had a five day vacation with my wife. It was lovely, perfect really. And at the time it seemed like a long break.

But now I am back working at the library. Thunder from a nearby storm shakes the city. Life goes on. I think about lunch, cooking as it is slowly, untended on the break room stove. I am upstairs shelving the last of three carts of books, and my sense of how long this vacation was has to be revised down. Way down.

It was not long at all.

It was now the length of one beautiful cloud, drifting by on the invisible wind.

The forest of threes part three

In my first piece about three we discussed how things come in threes. In my second piece about three we discussed how things come in threes. And I'm glad you read them. I'm glad you stuck with me. Because this is the culmination, this is where it all comes together, this is the third piece about three.

Which you must admit has an elegant resonance to it.

If only I had some idea what it could be about.

In the forest of threes: part two

Yesterday we learned that everything comes in threes.

It's amazing. Everything does indeed come in threes, because, you know, as soon as you have something, anything, you can pretty well group it with something else, so long as you're willing to apply any effort to it, because everything has something in common with something else. And once you've done that bit of work you can always find another one to complete your set. So that's three, which is the number everything comes in. And then if there's an obvious fourth one that you can't avoid it's just a matter of time, with that many, before another two come along and you're on safe ground once again. Whew!

But what if there's a whole bunch of stuff all at once, way more than three? Well, it merely means that you're not grouping things correctly. A simple illustration can be made with colors or clouds. We can sit here naming colors or clouds for hours and never get to the end of it. But they're just iterations of the three colors. Red, Yellow, Blue. And the three cloud types. Cirrus, Cumulus, and Stratus. And the reason there are three colors and three clouds is because there are three of everything. Just three. Only three. Three.

And for my third proof that everything comes in three, well, for the life of me I can't think of one.

An annual thing

I have to interrupt a series I was in the middle of on this blog to say something, particularly, this day.

Not that the series wasn't saying something... necessarily. I mean, it might have been, maybe, saying something. I was still working that part out. So let's just set that aside for a brief moment. Because I have to say something.

And what I'm saying might make perfect sense to you, or it might make no sense at all. I'm okay with both of those.

It's not gloating.
I refuse to believe it can or will curse anything.
I say it with humility and awe.


I got lucky.

In the forest of threes part one

Some lady at the bar I work at was complaining about the bad things that had happened to her that day and how the third one was surely coming, and as a bartender I

Wait.

I'm not a bartender. 

I work at a library, and it's completely different! For instance I don't give people drinks. I give them books and movies. And that's just one difference. There are others too! 

But I don't want to wear you out by going on and on and on and on about all the differences. So I'll just fix my slight slip of the tongue and carry on:

Some lady at the library I work at was complaining about the bad things that had happened to her that day and how the third one was surely coming, and as a (job title to be determined pending the results of a massive expensive outsourced county research project) I listened compassionately and said "Wait, I thought it was death that came in threes, and bad things just happened like... clockwork."

But I was wrong.

Everything comes in threes.


Everything:


Religions:

Judaism
Christianity
Zoroastrianism


Movies:

New Hope
Empire Strikes Back
Return of the Jedi


Vacation spots:

Ocean
Mountains
City


Fantasy book series:

Name of the Wind
The Wise Man's Fear
(Pending)


Types of snowfall:

Flurries
Snow
Blizzard


Porridge:

Too cold
Too hot
Just right



And because this is so obviously true I could go on forever! Theoretically. But I can't.

I must leave you here.

I have to get to work on part two.

Accidental recommendation

Yesterday I told you about how the requested books I go pull off the shelves for people, from our holds list, are particularly appealing. And so it was today I found a book called Sum, forty tales from the afterlives by David Eagleman. Ten years old, it is a beat up paperback describing a witty, poetic string of various afterlives. Time magazine says on the cover "...and be amazed". The first part of that quote is covered over by our library barcode, but you get the drift. There are no other books by this author on the shelf. I managed to read six or seven of these afterlives, standing out there in the stacks, and I liked them very much. I liked them enough to contemplate reading the whole book.

It is, of course, on hold for someone else, but I could request it. However, if I were to request it it would limit the time the requester would have with the book, preventing them from renewing it. And so I elected not to: this hardly seems a kind thing to do to the person who so thoughtfully brought the book to my attention.

Requested books

For years at my library I have shelved books as a part of my duties, but only recently have I begun pulling requested books. So I go upstairs with an empty cart for once, instead of a full one, find books on the shelf, from a list of items that people want, load them on my cart, and bring them downstairs to get distributed to these people.

And the revelation is that these books can be especially appealing.

These books are much better than the books I shelve! These books are wanted.

The books I shelve are no longer wanted.

These specifically wanted books have a certain something. They're interesting, particular, bespoke, and full of the unique story of the person's requesting them.

Curiously they are also different in one way from the books I shelve:

Unlike the books I shelve, I can't have them.

Caddy

The other day I looked out at the golf course and saw a young man caddying for another young man of the same general age.

I suppose if it was the movies the young guy golfing with the caddy who was his own age would have signified that he was an insufferable son of privilege, cold to the feelings of others, who never had to work a day in his life and considered servitude his divine birthright. Meanwhile the caddy himself would be a real person, just making a buck, if he could, almost certainly for some worthy pull-himself-up-by-the-bootstraps purpose. They'd probably have gone to the same high school together and resented each other the whole time there. By the end of the movie the tables will turn and the virtuous young caddy will triumph over the young trumpian.

And it's not a bad take on the whole thing, although perhaps unreasonably optimistic in today's America, what with tables turning and everything. 

And I do try to take an optimistic view.

Here are all the options the young man had to get his clubs around the course, but did not avail himself of:

1. In a bag over his shoulder, enjoying the fitness and strength of his youth.

2. Wheeled about in a nice 3-wheelie bag that offers extreme ease and maneuverability.

3. On the back of a little two-seated electric cart that's probably super fun to drive about on the hilly course. 


And here are all the good reasons to go around with a caddy:

1. Because he's a professional golfer.





So, in the spirit of looking on the positive side, I guess that explains it.


I saw a professional golfer today.





They sure are getting young though. 

And really bad at golf.

Work is strange

Oh man, work is strange.

But what isn't. Life is strange. It is possible that "strange" is a meaningless, or redundant descriptive, like "very". Anything that's sad is very sad. Everything that's tasty is very tasty. Everything that is purple is very purple.

And everything is strange.

Like work.

No, I don't have a story for you. I just went upstairs to shelve here at my job at the library. There are better jobs than this and there are worse jobs than this. And I'm not sure I really approve of the whole idea of "work", but I haven't found the world to be particularly interested in this. Strange. Very strange.

So here's the story:

I was shelving some books and I was feeling tired. So I went to the windows at the end of the row of the cookbooks. I looked out the window and there were trees, just sitting there. And even though I was on the high second floor of my building, 30 feet from the ground, there were still trees, pine trees, tall enough to just be sitting there, outside, in the Summer. So I looked at them.

And then I wasn't tired anymore.

Brazil

Driving to work is rarely the brightest part of my day. It might even never be the brightest part of my day. Going to work is like jumping off a cliff into the deep pool of water formed below by a waterfall. I am filled with fear and trepidation and dread. I regret how I got into this position. I hesitate endlessly on the ledge. That's how I feel when I'm driving to work. Then I dive in and I am exhilarated! That's the part where I actually arrive at work, except I'm not exactly exhilarated; I'm more like ready for it and okay. So it's not a perfect analogy.

But the point, the point is I'm never at my most optimistic and my sunshiny best driving along the freeways of Minnesota, all alone, on my bleary way to another day of work.

And so it was this morning.

The sky was grey. All the angry little cars crowded and hurried along the 75 lanes of asphalt. I turned on the radio, and...

Magic.

Brazil.

Oh, such jazz. Antonio Carlos Jobim, from an album called Stone Flower in 1970. And a drummer, oh the drummer, playing this textured, shifting layered bits, across what feels like the edges of everything, pulling out of one to make us realize another was playing underneath all along. Oh the chill, the fascination, the groove, what a song! The sun came out. I am sliding, I am diving, cliffs are for flying. Life's going to be all right. The water is cool and fine. Brazil.

And we all fall forever. And falling...

we dance.

Brazil

Working for a small audience

I need a volunteer.






Excellent.

My favorite magicians are Penn and Teller. I've read their books, seen a great cross section of their many shows, and I've even done weak versions of some of their easier, but still terribly clever, tricks. But I never thought I'd come up with a professional quality, truly mystifying magic trick of my own. 

I am going to blow your mind, right here, in the most unlikely of venues known to magic: a blog. Yes. I am going to perform a magic trick, and you are going to be bedazzled and flabbergasted. I'm that confident.  I've practiced. I've tested it. And I was lucky to come up with such a dynamic trick that suits my narrow range of magical skills.

This trick comes from the field of magic known as Mentalism. I will be appearing to read your mind!

I want you to pick a number.

No, not three (Ha, how did I know that?)! I want you to pick a very complex, many digited number of any size, but try and make it good. Take your time. Go ahead and write it down if it's too long to remember.

Got it?

Now concentrate on it.



Concentrate.





Concentrate.






Concentrate.







Concentrate.






Excellent. I've got it.





Your number is 52,363!



No, no, not your number. That's the volunteer's number. Naturally I could only do this trick for one of you out there. 

One of you who is amazed.


Er, you might want to mention it in the comments though. Otherwise I might look a bit silly to everyone else.

The mensch

One of my co-workers here at the library is a real mensch. He is really the only person that I ever follow on the big check in machine who will take care of things ahead of time for me. He'll go out of his way to lessen the workload for people coming after him.

"He's such a mensch!" I'll say.

The first time I realized this person was a mensch I went to my nearest co-worker and said excitedly "So and so is such a mensch!" And then they looked at me funny cause I used a Jewish word and they're anti-Semitic.

Well, I'm not sure they're actually anti-Semitic, but they could be. It's on the rise you know.

So this mensch is a good guy, and he's very nice, I mean he's a mensch, but oddly he seems to enrage the occasional library patron. There are, every once in awhile, library patrons who seem to unreasoningly despise him. I have never seen him give any cause for this. He's pretty nice and even-tempered in any situation. But I have seen people, not many, and of no particular type either, who really really don't like him. I've seen notes he's left behind on patron records that say things like "Told patron book was on hold and so not renewable. Patron called me a 'fucking asshole' and hung up".

Which is odd, because he's such a mensch.

And I'm going to stick with that one, about him being a mensch, though maybe with a little asterisk after the mensch part, just until I can figure it all out.

Dear Library Journal

Dear Library Journal:



You suck.

I say this as a friend though. 

I mean no enmity. I don't want you to feel bad even if you might anyway. I just thought you should know. That you suck.

I also say this as a person who has worked in a library for a quarter of a century and written more about libraries for fewer people than possibly anyone currently alive. I say this as a person profoundly and personally interested in libraries. I say this as a voracious reader and student of and lover of libraries.

And what is it that I say?

This:

I never read your magazine. It is too boring. It is too institutional, painstakingly inoffensive, and professionally obsessed. It is without life, joy, passion, or spirit. Its vision is small and without real ambition.

But I'm not criticizing you.

I'm sure you're doing a great job... somehow. Probably by trying. Yeah, I think you are probably trying. And I only want to help.

My idea is that I could write a "back page" column for Library Journal and kind of bring a little edge. 

We can call it "Library Unchained".

Did I tell you about the time you featured the absolute worst and most reviled manager in my entire library system as a special mover and shaker? 

I just thought I should mention it. In passing. While I'm gently letting you know you have a problem.

You see, the only way to solve a problem is to admit that you have one first. And then to hire the person who told you about it. 


And then to fire him a few months later when you realize he wasn't kidding, and when you understand that the whole, bitter, let's-make-the-world-better process is way too difficult and unrewarding to continue believing in and you have a serious business to run around here anyway!

Which, fair point.




I look forward to our brief few months together,


F. Calypso

My changeable library

Every day I notice something new about the library I work at. So many new things happen all the time! It's exciting, isn't it? Like for instance today I noticed my library is a piece of shit.

I mean that affectionately.

Well, sort of affectionately. Almost affectionately.

There's a sign on one of the loading bins of our big million dollar materials handling machine, taped crudely on, that says "This loader is working", like, things are so messed up here that we have to let everyone know if something actually works. "Don't worry though," it implies, "It's probably temporary." Out at the front desk there was another big sign that said "If you're reading this sign the public printer is broken". My level of trust in our smooth operating is low enough that yesterday I felt I'd better go check anyway. Yes, the printer was still broken. I'm sorry I doubted the sign. Today the sign was gone, but the printer was still broken.

The head of the entire library system was preparing imminently for a presentation in the meeting room tonight, but the projector wasn't picking up the signal from the laptop in there. I went to help. After I checked on the obvious problems I realized that I remembered this same issue from three months ago. I just couldn't remember the solution. As we were fiddling with it I said "Just as an aside, I think this is a good time for a complete redo of the Automation Services Department." She didn't seem amused. But then, it wasn't a joke. Then I found the problem: The VGA was plugged into an adapter converter to hdmi that was plugged into the computer. "Why not just plug the VGA directly into the VGA of the computer?" I wondered.

"Good idea." She said.

We plugged the VGA in directly, and the image came up through the projector!

But the image shook constantly, in a very unwatchably irritating way. 

Oh yeah, I remembered that was part of the problem from three months ago too. I also suddenly remembered the solution:

There wasn't one.

King of the library: The 13th decree

 


In my magnum opus, or rather in one of the legendary 18 magnum opera contained in this sprawling blog, I have been building a dream library, the library as I think it should be, a library system of which I am King! Decree by decree I have been slowly building this ideal of a library. I am moving along without urgency because, well, it's all just a dream, all just a wild, hopeless, fanciful dream...

But dreams aren't for defeat and despair, they're for inspiration! So I have two new decrees as King of the library. One decree will likely be unpopular among my co-workers and one will be popular, thus I am presenting them paired for balance. I am also splitting them over the course of two days because, well, there are a lot of calendar days out there to fill with blog posts every year.

Yesterday we presented the 11th decree in which we cleaned our own bathrooms (and buildings). Having put our own house (library) in order, and accumulated a bit of extra savings, we are ready to launch our most ambitious project yet!


The 12th decree: We shall establish a new branch library... in Tuscany!!!!!


Well, it doesn't have to be Tuscany per se. It could be in Paris, or Rome, or sure, Florence, which is in Tuscany. In fact let's just call it Florence. We'll establish it in Florence. Me and my wife will go check out the lay of the land for us in a few months.

And why not have one of our library branches in a popular tourist destination and a treasured historical city? Such a library can be a destination location while simultaneously being a nice representation of our culture, different than chain fast food restaurants, selfie snapping tourists, and embassies stocked with corrupt political donors. Most of all it can be a useful resource. We can buy some modest and slightly run down palazzo, work up a few rooms to house the library staff. Stock it with an exhaustive and interesting collection of local travel and history materials and an eclectic array of vacation reading, have some decent seating, Internet, helpful staff, and, most valuable of all, excellent bathrooms.

Questions:


Who will be welcome?

Everyone! It's a library!


Can anyone get a library card?

Sure, Italians, Chinese, Minnesotans, whatever. Some kind of ID would be good though.


Who will staff it?

Just our regular staff, transplanted for three month stints, with a free small apartment connected to the complex. You might want to put your name in right now as the line might get long.


This suggests a kind of hegemonic spread of libraries. Are you hoping libraries will take over the world?

Yes.




And so it is decreed, this day, etc. etc.,

The King

King of the library: The 12th decree

In my magnum opus, or rather in one of the legendary 12 magnum opera contained in this sprawling blog, I have been building a dream library, the library as I think it should be, a library system of which I am King! Decree by decree I have been slowly building this ideal of a library. I am moving along without urgency because, well, it's all just a dream, all just a hopeless, wild, fanciful dream...

But dreams aren't for defeat and despair, they're for inspiration! So I have two new decrees as King of the library. One decree will likely be unpopular among my co-workers and one will be popular, thus I am presenting them paired for balance. I am also splitting them over the course of two days because, well, there are a lot of calendar days out there to fill with blog posts every year.

We will start today with the more dirt-under-the-fingernails decree, the 12th decree. The dirt-under-the-fingernails thing will only become less appealing when you learn what this decree actually is. But please keep in mind that this decree, while still essential, is designed to give gravity and justification to the wonders and heavy expenses that await us in decree 13.


The 11th decree is: 

We can clean our own damn bathrooms!


Inspired by a criminally incompetent County and Library system that actually outsources janitorial services, something I despise so deeply I can't discuss it civilly, I have decided to go as far as possible in the opposite direction: 

The regular library staff can clean the building themselves! 

But it's not all bad news workers, so read on with the provisos below:



1.  Assigned on a weekly rota, for that week janitorially assigned workers will only work on building maintenance and cleaning and are exempted (and actually excluded) from all other duties.

2. For a modest percentage cut in pay employees may opt out of cleaning duties. That money will be pooled to be shared among cleaners.

3. All cleaning scheduled time is paid double, plus the proportional share of opt out money.

4. Workers work their normal hours when on janitorial duty, except they clean and stuff, and get paid more.





I guess that's about it. So, why all this you ask? What's the point? 

The point is that we can clean our own damn bathrooms, that's the point. And even with the doubled wages it'll probably still cost less. Which is good, because I am spending all that tomorrow on decree 12. 

And so it is decreed this day by order of...

The King (who will also clean).

Capitalism in Europe and beyond

My two big Internet studying hobbies lately are the inherent tragedy of Capitalism and places to eat things in Florence. The first is clarifying and extremely critical of an inhumane system, and the second is very... capitalist. Nevertheless there is an odd way that a very capitalist trip to Europe still offers some small breaks from Capitalism.

It is currently 93 degrees out and so humid that the heat index currently reads 110 degrees! If I were in the unfortunate position of spending some time outside, like those intrepid golfers out my window, and I had the opportunity to pop into a clubhouse cooled down to 85 degrees, I no doubt would find it a relief, even as I knew it wasn't particularly comfortable for the long run in that regard. That's a bit of what Capitalism is relatively like in Europe. Yes there are still massive corrupt companies, beggars in the streets, desperate trades of time and labor for people merely to stay afloat. There's graft, crime, exploitation and corruption all as the standard driving force for how the culture runs. But on the other hand people there tend to have healthcare, a bit of parental leave, vacations, an occasional protective regulation or two, and usually, and this is probably the crux of the pleasure of it for me, when they charge a price for something, that's the actual price! It doesn't add on a large, unspoken tip one is supposed to leave and an array of inscrutable taxes, like for instance a base one, maybe a little city one, and a special one for alcohol. It's all inclusive rather than a come on. It's surprising what that little bit of honest approach does for how I think about being in those cities. It's just that tiny surcease of competition and angling for money in every single thing that provides the 85 degree relief.

Of course, the real ideal is more like 74 degrees, the temperature of this blog, which makes no money at all, is done in the service of goodness and giving, and is as pure and and refreshing as the driven snow.





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