I am just sitting around today poking at my blog, messing with my recommended books list, adding new links to old posts there, and leaving obscure comments on old posts that I am running into that are never likely to be found by anyone else, but you never know. I am also waiting for our new refrigerator to arrive. So it seemed like a good time to write a Sunday post, which we all know is the incredibly folksy kind of post. The kind of post where a person can talk about a refrigerator and not have it mean anything. Yes, I could develop a refrigerator discussion into a rumination on aging, or life in Minnesota, but on Sundays we let the new refrigerator just be a place to put food that we want to keep cold.
And the refrigerator breathes a cool sigh of relief.
I have a sort of vision for this new refrigerator. Part of me is aware of the perversity and ultimate unhealthiness of this vision, but nevertheless it leaves me breathlessly excited about the arrival of our new appliance.
I picture my big, shiny, white, clean new refrigerator shelf, which is far bigger than anything I had in our old, small, freezes-anything-too-far-to-the-back refrigerator. And on this beautiful shelf are jars, just jars. None of them will be fancy, but all will be at least plain, clear, unlabeled. The left side is full of slightly varying in color mayonnaises and aiolis. Saffron mayonnaise, sweet meyer lemon mayonnaise, sesame tamari mayonnaise. The other side of the refrigerator shelf, the right side, will all be full of fruit syrups, each one like a big, fat, sweet jewel, full of light and rich gem colors. Cherry syrup and strawberry, peach and plum, raspberry and mango, all waiting to be poured into a clear glass a quarter to a third full, and then finished with the most strongly sparkling water I could find. When one adds the strongly sparkling water to the syrup it foams beautifully into a pale opaque colored version of the syrup itself, and tastes quintessentially of the fruit one started with.
No one asked about the mayonnaise, but I did get a comment request last week for a fruit syrup recipe when I mentioned them in passing. I thought, "Why not?"
This is a very simple recipe (well, simple to write, or explain, but it can vary, based on the fruit, as to how much work it is). I am going to base our fruit syrup recipe here on the bucket of cherries my incredibly kind and generous co-worker gave me just yesterday. But similar principles apply to other fruits.
1. Get a bucket of some kind of non sweet pie cherry. These should be fresh cherries ideally, given to you by someone you work with.
2. Spend a couple hours pitting these cherries on your back porch or somewhere pleasant outside. You have to do this outside because pitting cherries is roughly like slaughtering a pig. Staining red splatters would spray the entirety of the inside of your house no matter what precautions you took if you did it inside.
3. Discard the pits. These are not edible! Too crunchy!
4. Put all your cherries in a big pot. Add a whole lot of agave syrup, or if you will, sugar. But they have to be organic because otherwise you will get cancer and die. I don't want you to die!
5. "How much syrup or sugar?" You ask. A whole lot. But not too much. I know this is awful cooking blog measuring, but fortunately there is a huge margin here before you can go wrong and I'm not even sure you could go wrong.
6. Cook on low heat for a couple of hours. Ideally it will look a bit thickish, but it's still going to be quite liquidy.
7. Just let it sit there for some hours cooling.
8. Strain it through a metal mesh thing, you know, a strainer, that's like mesh. You really want to stir and get all the precious liquid that you can out and into your jar.
9. Add your beautiful, deep red jar of cherry syrup to your shelf with the blueberry syrup, plum syrup, espresso syrup, and cantaloupe syrup. These will be to the right of your Aiolis, unless you are tragically allergic to raw eggs and have something else on that side of the refrigerator.
10. Reserve all the drained cherries for other recreational eating opportunities!
Sunday, July 6, 2014
Saturday, July 5, 2014
Work comes
I have heard enough anecdotal accounts of the work lives of a variety of
people to know that work comes in a lot of different forms. Some people
have a very set array of responsibilities that they can get to on their
own schedule. Some people mainly pretend to work, or work dodging work.
Some people don't have much to do and wish they did. Some people have
to sort of invent their jobs on a day to day basis. Some people have an
endless job that they just need to steadily plow through. Some people
choose amongst an array of complicated, important, and yet optional
tasks. Some people race around in a desperate attempt to manage too many
things at once. And some people, like me and many of my co-workers, are
often in the position of taking work as it comes.
My job, and I suppose many jobs, has some elements of many of the different kinds of jobs described above, but it is that last one about taking work as it comes that feels most defining to being a library clerk. Sometimes there is a blizzard of calls, sometimes there isn't. There may be a long line of people with a lot of complicated issues at the front desk or there may just be one guy who says a couple of things to you in what seems to be Swahili before leaving you to do what you want for 15 minutes. You may be buried and pressed for weeks, even months, under a crushing load of books and people, and then, almost out of nowhere, find yourself in a lot of conversations like this:
"I wonder why it's so quiet tonight?"
"Maybe because it's so hot out."
"But it's snowing."
"Maybe because it's snowing. Also, there's a big ferret show at the civic center this week."
"Hmm. Could be."
I think a lot of us try to take our pacing as we can. We race hard when everything is thrown at us, and, maybe if we see an opening for some down time, we try and grab it. We may have that downtime for so long it starts to curdle, and yet too we may have it ripped away from us before we even can get the first, sweet whiff of it, before we even know what it is.
Last night I was on the machine, as I usually am, and the library was very much on the quiet side of things. But closing up the machine is still usually a bit of a job. So there was no hope for me. But my colleague in the back room with me was on the phones, which is among the most fertile assignments for down time. As things were slowing down dramatically, and we neared the end of the evening, he saw a suddenly blossoming opportunity. No calls had come for over an hour. He'd finished all the requests. Nothing was backed up. No managers were restlessly roaming. He'd put in his full day, so he said, with twenty utterly placid minutes laying out before him "That's it, I'm done for the day."
And immediately the phone started ringing...
My job, and I suppose many jobs, has some elements of many of the different kinds of jobs described above, but it is that last one about taking work as it comes that feels most defining to being a library clerk. Sometimes there is a blizzard of calls, sometimes there isn't. There may be a long line of people with a lot of complicated issues at the front desk or there may just be one guy who says a couple of things to you in what seems to be Swahili before leaving you to do what you want for 15 minutes. You may be buried and pressed for weeks, even months, under a crushing load of books and people, and then, almost out of nowhere, find yourself in a lot of conversations like this:
"I wonder why it's so quiet tonight?"
"Maybe because it's so hot out."
"But it's snowing."
"Maybe because it's snowing. Also, there's a big ferret show at the civic center this week."
"Hmm. Could be."
I think a lot of us try to take our pacing as we can. We race hard when everything is thrown at us, and, maybe if we see an opening for some down time, we try and grab it. We may have that downtime for so long it starts to curdle, and yet too we may have it ripped away from us before we even can get the first, sweet whiff of it, before we even know what it is.
Last night I was on the machine, as I usually am, and the library was very much on the quiet side of things. But closing up the machine is still usually a bit of a job. So there was no hope for me. But my colleague in the back room with me was on the phones, which is among the most fertile assignments for down time. As things were slowing down dramatically, and we neared the end of the evening, he saw a suddenly blossoming opportunity. No calls had come for over an hour. He'd finished all the requests. Nothing was backed up. No managers were restlessly roaming. He'd put in his full day, so he said, with twenty utterly placid minutes laying out before him "That's it, I'm done for the day."
And immediately the phone started ringing...
Friday, July 4, 2014
Independence
Every time I go to the dentist my view of the nature/nurture debate skews heavily to the nature side. So far I am clearly the beneficiary of inherited good teeth. To people who brush and floss seven times a day only to have to visit dentists every month for intrusive surgeries I can only say "I am sorry." It would be generous to say that my dental hygiene is barely acceptable, but I waltz into the dentists office (well, it's not waltzing exactly so much as it's dread-tinged walking) and I am immediately showered with compliments. "You have great teeth." "Doesn't he have great teeth?" and "Don't forget to floss. But look who I'm telling to floss! I surely don't need to tell the god of teeth to floss! Ha ha ha."
Well maybe not that last one so much, but it's not as completely outrageous as it might seem.
My occasionally pessimistic nature makes me feel like this toothy paradise could come crashing down at any moment, but the fact remains that, despite my trepidation, I do not get much bad news in Dentist offices. I have good teeth, by nature.
Although, come to think of it, it's not like my relatives have been any great shakes in the teeth department. My ancestors have had braces and root canals and cavities the likes of which I have barely experienced a glimmer of. So, it's beyond nature, which really here is intended to mean genetics. We are all the way into luck here.
I don't have a great deal of experience at overwhelmingly excelling at things. Sure, I write the greatest blog on the Internet, but it's not the sort of greatest blog on the Internet that other people are constantly thinking is the greatest blog on the Internet. It's more the kind of greatest blog on the Internet that I like to tell you is the greatest blog on the Internet. I was not the fastest runner in school, any school, ever, nor the best athlete in any sport. People have never fawned over my beauty except, possibly, a little when I was about four and exceptionally cute. I don't think I was breakout cute though. In all the various endeavors where I applied myself to making a fortune it never led to my being a multimillionaire. My art career never inspired passion. At least, not in very many others. Indeed, I have never met with what I would describe as an electric reaction in any field. I'm not saying that I have met with no success in life, just, I have never demolished the curve in anything.
Except, apparently, teeth.
And I believe this experience has given me some insights.
Would you like to hear them?
When dental personnel speak so highly of my teeth I feel a little funny. I feel like I am getting credit for something I did not much have any part in. I didn't make my teeth so great! And yet, at the same time, I sometimes find myself secretly giving myself credit for tiny peculiar habits of dental hygiene that I do have, some method of tooth picking or brushing or whatever. Some part of me does not want to pass up this tooth bounty. Some part of me strives for credit.
But in the end I find I have to go with the humble choice. My teeth are mostly just a nicely dealt hand. And one doesn't need to be a great poker player to win a hand with four Kings. Now, I'm not saying to you, Mr. Multimillionaire, that you didn't work and augment and nurture your inherent luck and perfectly suited money making talents, and I'm not saying that you, Handsome Johnny, didn't choose the right haircut and go jogging and dress wisely, and I'm not saying that you, Bob Dylan (who regularly reads this blog, so, hi Bob!), didn't play long hours and find good places to write from and didn't help the magic happen. No, I'm not saying that at all. But I am saying this: I work with people who help at a service desk, who answer phones, who shelve. Indeed, some of them work hard enough, harder than me even. And that work produces something perfectly nice. It is, believe it or not, roughly the same amount of work as Mr. Multimillionaire and Handsome Johnny and Bob Dylan and the greatest blogger on the Internet. It's just work. And all adulation and millions, all fandom, and praise of teeth is a kind of a freakshow.
And we are all, magical or not, every last goddamn one of us, innocent of greatness.
Well maybe not that last one so much, but it's not as completely outrageous as it might seem.
My occasionally pessimistic nature makes me feel like this toothy paradise could come crashing down at any moment, but the fact remains that, despite my trepidation, I do not get much bad news in Dentist offices. I have good teeth, by nature.
Although, come to think of it, it's not like my relatives have been any great shakes in the teeth department. My ancestors have had braces and root canals and cavities the likes of which I have barely experienced a glimmer of. So, it's beyond nature, which really here is intended to mean genetics. We are all the way into luck here.
I don't have a great deal of experience at overwhelmingly excelling at things. Sure, I write the greatest blog on the Internet, but it's not the sort of greatest blog on the Internet that other people are constantly thinking is the greatest blog on the Internet. It's more the kind of greatest blog on the Internet that I like to tell you is the greatest blog on the Internet. I was not the fastest runner in school, any school, ever, nor the best athlete in any sport. People have never fawned over my beauty except, possibly, a little when I was about four and exceptionally cute. I don't think I was breakout cute though. In all the various endeavors where I applied myself to making a fortune it never led to my being a multimillionaire. My art career never inspired passion. At least, not in very many others. Indeed, I have never met with what I would describe as an electric reaction in any field. I'm not saying that I have met with no success in life, just, I have never demolished the curve in anything.
Except, apparently, teeth.
And I believe this experience has given me some insights.
Would you like to hear them?
When dental personnel speak so highly of my teeth I feel a little funny. I feel like I am getting credit for something I did not much have any part in. I didn't make my teeth so great! And yet, at the same time, I sometimes find myself secretly giving myself credit for tiny peculiar habits of dental hygiene that I do have, some method of tooth picking or brushing or whatever. Some part of me does not want to pass up this tooth bounty. Some part of me strives for credit.
But in the end I find I have to go with the humble choice. My teeth are mostly just a nicely dealt hand. And one doesn't need to be a great poker player to win a hand with four Kings. Now, I'm not saying to you, Mr. Multimillionaire, that you didn't work and augment and nurture your inherent luck and perfectly suited money making talents, and I'm not saying that you, Handsome Johnny, didn't choose the right haircut and go jogging and dress wisely, and I'm not saying that you, Bob Dylan (who regularly reads this blog, so, hi Bob!), didn't play long hours and find good places to write from and didn't help the magic happen. No, I'm not saying that at all. But I am saying this: I work with people who help at a service desk, who answer phones, who shelve. Indeed, some of them work hard enough, harder than me even. And that work produces something perfectly nice. It is, believe it or not, roughly the same amount of work as Mr. Multimillionaire and Handsome Johnny and Bob Dylan and the greatest blogger on the Internet. It's just work. And all adulation and millions, all fandom, and praise of teeth is a kind of a freakshow.
And we are all, magical or not, every last goddamn one of us, innocent of greatness.
Thursday, July 3, 2014
The fourth post
Yes, I was going to write about something new and interesting today. I have a long list of subjects and was about to pick one when I saw a certain, evocative book on my shelving cart and all my plans flew out the window. Or they would have flown out the window except this is a building with tons of windows and yet none that can be opened. So I guess all my plans just got stuffed in my pockets for now because I have a new plan.
I'm going to talk about Jasper Fforde.
Yes, again!
But I am going to talk about titles, which I haven't much talked about. And furthermore I am going to talk about Mystery titles, which I have never talked about.
Which is why you have that tingly I'm-there-at-the-invention-of-the-wheel feeling.
The book that I came across on my cart is a mystery novel called The Fourth Bear by Jasper Fforde. This book is part of the Nursery Crimes series which as yet consists of only two books. These are two of the greatest mystery novels ever written. Curiously enough these two mysteries are shelved in the Science Fiction section for reasons I would take far too long to explain, and, in the process, would vehemently insult my library slightly more than it deserves.
But besides not explaining why The Fourth Bear is shelved in the Sci Fi section I am also not, mostly, going to talk about why this is such a great mystery novel.
This may be disappointing to Jasper Fforde, but I'm not sure about how the rest of you will feel. But, oh man, the things I could tell you!
But won't.
No.
Because I am going to talk about this puny, great, three word title instead. The Fourth Bear.
Mystery novels are not bad at titles, except when they are bad at titles, at which point they are the worst of all genres at titles. Gimmicks like numbers, letters, puns, and repeated word schemes in detective novel series are not necessarily bad, but tend to lock themselves into a system of diminishing returns, and before you know it your mystery novel is struggling to make a crime pun out chocolate cake for the third time or you're forced to work the number 22 or the letter "X" into your title and have it be vaguely related to your actual book. On the other end of this scale are the scads of terse, tough titles that are also mostly fine, but, whether I like the book or not, fairly interchangeable.
Most of my favorite mystery titles lean towards a simple, evocative elegance. The Big Sleep is a beautiful, tone setting title. I'm also fond of Tony Hillerman, well, his books, but some of the later titles too. Coyote Waits in particular is quite nice. But oh, The Fourth Bear is most wonderful of all to me. It starts off by placing it in all those pun based, theme books contexts, but is more allusive, complex, witty and referential. It's no cheap pun, but a clear, direct reference to the Goldilocks story, fairy tales, nursery rhymes, but all hitting the edge of it from the perspective of dark mystery, overcoats, hard boiled street corners, clues, police procedurals, mystery. Neither is stated directly but, as we stand close to each, a noir mystery and a fairytale, we see them dovetail with lovely, perfect matching, and simple grace. "Aha!" we say. "They belonged together all along!" But we're in on the joke too, and take our pleasure in getting it.
And that, marvelously, is how the whole book is too.
I'm going to talk about Jasper Fforde.
Yes, again!
But I am going to talk about titles, which I haven't much talked about. And furthermore I am going to talk about Mystery titles, which I have never talked about.
Which is why you have that tingly I'm-there-at-the-invention-of-the-wheel feeling.
The book that I came across on my cart is a mystery novel called The Fourth Bear by Jasper Fforde. This book is part of the Nursery Crimes series which as yet consists of only two books. These are two of the greatest mystery novels ever written. Curiously enough these two mysteries are shelved in the Science Fiction section for reasons I would take far too long to explain, and, in the process, would vehemently insult my library slightly more than it deserves.
But besides not explaining why The Fourth Bear is shelved in the Sci Fi section I am also not, mostly, going to talk about why this is such a great mystery novel.
This may be disappointing to Jasper Fforde, but I'm not sure about how the rest of you will feel. But, oh man, the things I could tell you!
But won't.
No.
Because I am going to talk about this puny, great, three word title instead. The Fourth Bear.
Mystery novels are not bad at titles, except when they are bad at titles, at which point they are the worst of all genres at titles. Gimmicks like numbers, letters, puns, and repeated word schemes in detective novel series are not necessarily bad, but tend to lock themselves into a system of diminishing returns, and before you know it your mystery novel is struggling to make a crime pun out chocolate cake for the third time or you're forced to work the number 22 or the letter "X" into your title and have it be vaguely related to your actual book. On the other end of this scale are the scads of terse, tough titles that are also mostly fine, but, whether I like the book or not, fairly interchangeable.
Most of my favorite mystery titles lean towards a simple, evocative elegance. The Big Sleep is a beautiful, tone setting title. I'm also fond of Tony Hillerman, well, his books, but some of the later titles too. Coyote Waits in particular is quite nice. But oh, The Fourth Bear is most wonderful of all to me. It starts off by placing it in all those pun based, theme books contexts, but is more allusive, complex, witty and referential. It's no cheap pun, but a clear, direct reference to the Goldilocks story, fairy tales, nursery rhymes, but all hitting the edge of it from the perspective of dark mystery, overcoats, hard boiled street corners, clues, police procedurals, mystery. Neither is stated directly but, as we stand close to each, a noir mystery and a fairytale, we see them dovetail with lovely, perfect matching, and simple grace. "Aha!" we say. "They belonged together all along!" But we're in on the joke too, and take our pleasure in getting it.
And that, marvelously, is how the whole book is too.
Wednesday, July 2, 2014
Bike path etiquette
We have a lot of bike paths in my city, many of them quite close to my home. Some of them are underwater at the moment, but that's another story, and in the vast majority of years the design of these bikeways has proved elevated enough to keep them out of rivers and creeks. I often walk and bike on these splendid paths, but I do tend to try and avoid them during hours of peak traffic.
It's not that I don't love mankind (in the words of the great Linus Van Pelt "I love mankind, it's people I can't stand"), but more that I have a real taste for keeping a breeze friendly distance between me and all but one of the species. So on lovely weekend days and pleasant early evenings I tend to stick more to my city's lightly populated and plentiful sidewalks. Nevertheless the bike paths are a good way to get around and often enough I am on them with a fair share of other people.
Some of them pass me.
When they are on bikes and I am on foot or when I am also on a bike but they are still passing me they are supposed to announce their passing. The serious bikers generally call out "On your left". This is the safe thing to do.
Except, unfortunately, it's not. Not having grown up in a soothing environment and being of an, at times, deeply inward nature, has left me easily startleable. So when people call out briskly to me "On your left" I tend to jolt. When I'm on a bike I swerve across the width of the bike path, make a sort of S-curve across both lanes, and then wrestle control back of my bike and move demurely to the right side of the path, but only long after I have already been passed. When I hear the warning while on foot I stagger like a drunk person who has been buffeted by a strong wind.
So sadly this "On your left" business isn't really working out for us. I actually do best with children who are obsessed with their bells so that I can hear the tinkling sound of it gently rising. For adults I would probably do best if at 200 feet away they started softly saying "On your left, on your left, on your left..." but I suppose this would make them seem a little crazy. Perhaps they could sing a song? I sometimes sing songs, but I don't really pass anybody. Maybe, in the end, the best thing for them to do is just silently avoid me. As they pass I'll probably startle and stagger, but at least by then it will probably be too late for us to crash into each other. Just, they should give me a very wide berth. I think that would be the best, all around.
It's not that I don't love mankind (in the words of the great Linus Van Pelt "I love mankind, it's people I can't stand"), but more that I have a real taste for keeping a breeze friendly distance between me and all but one of the species. So on lovely weekend days and pleasant early evenings I tend to stick more to my city's lightly populated and plentiful sidewalks. Nevertheless the bike paths are a good way to get around and often enough I am on them with a fair share of other people.
Some of them pass me.
When they are on bikes and I am on foot or when I am also on a bike but they are still passing me they are supposed to announce their passing. The serious bikers generally call out "On your left". This is the safe thing to do.
Except, unfortunately, it's not. Not having grown up in a soothing environment and being of an, at times, deeply inward nature, has left me easily startleable. So when people call out briskly to me "On your left" I tend to jolt. When I'm on a bike I swerve across the width of the bike path, make a sort of S-curve across both lanes, and then wrestle control back of my bike and move demurely to the right side of the path, but only long after I have already been passed. When I hear the warning while on foot I stagger like a drunk person who has been buffeted by a strong wind.
So sadly this "On your left" business isn't really working out for us. I actually do best with children who are obsessed with their bells so that I can hear the tinkling sound of it gently rising. For adults I would probably do best if at 200 feet away they started softly saying "On your left, on your left, on your left..." but I suppose this would make them seem a little crazy. Perhaps they could sing a song? I sometimes sing songs, but I don't really pass anybody. Maybe, in the end, the best thing for them to do is just silently avoid me. As they pass I'll probably startle and stagger, but at least by then it will probably be too late for us to crash into each other. Just, they should give me a very wide berth. I think that would be the best, all around.
Tuesday, July 1, 2014
Library machine comedy in action!
This is a true story in which joke week climbs from out of the grave to stumble forth again.
I was working on the automated check in machine and since we were in the general run up to closing I was pretty busy. One of my kind co-workers, walking by, saw a tangle of magazines coming through and so started to help out. She gathered them up and fed them carefully through, but the machine just spit them into the exception bin. There was no reason for the machine to be unable to process them, it just... didn't. Magazines are simply one of those item types that the machine has problems with.
My co-worker may have even tried one more time to get the magazines through, but whether she did or didn't, at some point, she turned to me, exasperated, and said "I don't know what it is, but I just can't get the magazines to go through!"
"Oh, don't worry about it." I said consolingly. "The magazines have issues."
I was working on the automated check in machine and since we were in the general run up to closing I was pretty busy. One of my kind co-workers, walking by, saw a tangle of magazines coming through and so started to help out. She gathered them up and fed them carefully through, but the machine just spit them into the exception bin. There was no reason for the machine to be unable to process them, it just... didn't. Magazines are simply one of those item types that the machine has problems with.
My co-worker may have even tried one more time to get the magazines through, but whether she did or didn't, at some point, she turned to me, exasperated, and said "I don't know what it is, but I just can't get the magazines to go through!"
"Oh, don't worry about it." I said consolingly. "The magazines have issues."
Monday, June 30, 2014
Ghosted
Here is my small
story for the "If you build it they will come" crowd. It is for the
people who think all your Van Goghs and Emily Dickinsons and Franz
Kafkas always find their way out to the world, and that all greatness is
destined by its quality to be at least some small part of the recorded
history of human culture.
The greatest blog ever written was composed daily from 1949 to 1983 in the form of daily letters. They were from a woman in Ohio to her sister in England. They were funnier than I could ever hope to be, wise, witty, perfectly sketched, and frequently compelling. The language, though fluid and readable on an immediate level, was relentlessly inventive. It danced. Small things you say today, ways you talk and write, would be attributable to this treasure trove of letters, these dazzling essays, these sketches of the heart of the universe and its most trifling details. But they aren't, because only one person ever read these letters: the person they were sent to.
When the woman, the sister these letters were sent to, died, her family offered them back to her sister, the writer. They had been treasured and reread many times by the person they were sent to. They had been neatly boxed up in careful order as they were received. But the sister did not want them back. And many years later the letters were simply thrown away.
Yes, these were letters, and they never made it to the Internet but for this glancing mention here. With the writer, the reader, and the letters all dead, they are a ghost. And though they weren't a blog really, the writing was exactly the same as what I mean by a blog. And it was the best blog ever. It dogs my steps. It haunts me. And like small gods and like great dreams and like enlightenment it belongs to a secret world we are forced to contend with. We are never there. No, no matter what I do, I am never there. I never can be and neither can you. We must do our best with here. All we can do is send our notes over to all majesty, to mastery, to small gods, to the fulfillment of our dreams, to enlightenment, and let them know how we're doing.
And hope that they are read and neatly boxed up.
The greatest blog ever written was composed daily from 1949 to 1983 in the form of daily letters. They were from a woman in Ohio to her sister in England. They were funnier than I could ever hope to be, wise, witty, perfectly sketched, and frequently compelling. The language, though fluid and readable on an immediate level, was relentlessly inventive. It danced. Small things you say today, ways you talk and write, would be attributable to this treasure trove of letters, these dazzling essays, these sketches of the heart of the universe and its most trifling details. But they aren't, because only one person ever read these letters: the person they were sent to.
When the woman, the sister these letters were sent to, died, her family offered them back to her sister, the writer. They had been treasured and reread many times by the person they were sent to. They had been neatly boxed up in careful order as they were received. But the sister did not want them back. And many years later the letters were simply thrown away.
Yes, these were letters, and they never made it to the Internet but for this glancing mention here. With the writer, the reader, and the letters all dead, they are a ghost. And though they weren't a blog really, the writing was exactly the same as what I mean by a blog. And it was the best blog ever. It dogs my steps. It haunts me. And like small gods and like great dreams and like enlightenment it belongs to a secret world we are forced to contend with. We are never there. No, no matter what I do, I am never there. I never can be and neither can you. We must do our best with here. All we can do is send our notes over to all majesty, to mastery, to small gods, to the fulfillment of our dreams, to enlightenment, and let them know how we're doing.
And hope that they are read and neatly boxed up.
Sunday, June 29, 2014
Reconsideration
I have somewhere on this blog a list of my very favorite books. Thinking this is a natural for a blog that gets very writerly, is often about reading, and has as its original motivation working at a library, I have even done a few things to make my list a kind of central pillar of my blog. So while the initial feature of this list is really just to say what books I've loved, it is also growing into a kind of a central station for my blog itself. Find a book that interests you on the list, and, if you click on it, you'll be off to a blog post about that book, or a blog post sort of about that book, or a blog post that feels like that book, or a blog post with an incredibly tenuous connection to that book. It is a vast, interlinking, self referential, Internet book list, and anyone new to my blog would be well served by poking around there for a few hundred hours to get acquainted with the history of this blog, or to have the most fun they ever had, or whatever. I mean, that is, if I ever had new people on my blog. Which I don't, because they have been unable to pass the test. You have passed the test. Alas, they have not. But there is always hope for these poor, deficient, other people. It's not that hard of a test! At least I don't think so. Did you find the test hard?
See?
But as I build this list and interlink it to my past essays I run into issues. For instance, what if I write a post that I'm really pleased with, and it's sort of about a book, but I only just like the book, or the book is on the borderline of love, or maybe just, well, the jury in my heart is still out, sitting in a room somewhere unable to come to a consensus opinion? My solution with something like this is to get it out on the list, but to make its sometimes highly qualified status known.
My most recent issue like this has had to do with this question: What if I pick up one of these treasured old loves of my past reading self, featured sunnily on my fancy list, read it again and think "What the hell?!"
People change. Even me!
The book in question here is My Family and Other Animals by Gerald Durrell. I just finished it and, while I can clearly see what charmed me about it when I was younger, indeed there are parts of it that I am still charmed by, I also am now unable to look away from its many problems in a sufficient manner to allow me to love it so unreservedly.
My Family and Other Animals is a memoir about an eccentric English family of independent means who, between the World Wars, go off to live on an idyllic Greek Island called Corfu. It is told from the perspective of the youngest in the family, the only one who really was still a grade school kid, Gerry. He was a largely fearless, absolutely animal crazy kid for whom Corfu was heaven. The descriptions of the Island and fauna can be wonderful, and the sense of adventure is charming. I love how Gerry seems to run into idiosyncratic but always delightful and helpful people on the island. It's like his unrestrained interest in everything that walks, crawls, swims and flies, brings out the best qualities in himself and his dog and everyone he runs into.
So, good enough so far. This all is why I remembered the book so fondly from younger days.
Oh, but sometimes.
First of all there is the problem of Gerry having to catch and capture and own every damn animal! I don't suppose I shout much at books, or, maybe I do, but more in my head, and at this one I often enough found myself sort of shouting at young Gerry "Just leave the beautiful animal alone! It is a hundred year old magnificent Tortoise! It does not want to live in your bedroom!" I suppose it should be no surprise then that our author grew up to be a zookeeper. I'm afraid though that's rather like saying "Our author grew up to be the Warden at a jail for innocent people." I just had a hard time getting all that out of my head, maybe because it belonged in my head while I was reading the thing.
My other difficulty was Gerry's family. I think they always reminded me a bit of my own family, only better. It's just that there was plenty of room with my family for a different family to be better than mine before that family was actually good. I quite like stories about eccentric families, but I find they tend to fall into one of two categories. The first I will call the Addams Family version because they're such an excellent example. This eccentric family is underpinned by harmony and love. They delight, whether quietly or loudly, in the qualities, pursuits, natures, and successes of their relatives. Their eccentricity issues from their centeredness, their pure love and interest standing in contrast to received ideologies, that is, in contrast to the often false and self serving ideas of our culture, and social norms. They are not normal. They don't do things the way we assume things should be done, and they are better for it. The other kind of family is clever, antagonistic, and often playfully at odds with one another. Except the playfulness is sometimes just a disguise for being mean. Alliances shift among them, they sometimes come together against outside forces, but while they may or may not like to suggest their bond is, deep down, really love, it never feels like it. And love is a feeling, so if it doesn't feel like it I don't believe it. Sadly, the eccentric family in My Family and Other Animals is rather far more in this latter category than the enchanting and more rare Addams Family version.
So, yes, a good and bad book. It is sort of recommended, once loved, now more... mixed. Do I take it off the list?
After I can link it to this post? I don't think so!
See?
But as I build this list and interlink it to my past essays I run into issues. For instance, what if I write a post that I'm really pleased with, and it's sort of about a book, but I only just like the book, or the book is on the borderline of love, or maybe just, well, the jury in my heart is still out, sitting in a room somewhere unable to come to a consensus opinion? My solution with something like this is to get it out on the list, but to make its sometimes highly qualified status known.
My most recent issue like this has had to do with this question: What if I pick up one of these treasured old loves of my past reading self, featured sunnily on my fancy list, read it again and think "What the hell?!"
People change. Even me!
The book in question here is My Family and Other Animals by Gerald Durrell. I just finished it and, while I can clearly see what charmed me about it when I was younger, indeed there are parts of it that I am still charmed by, I also am now unable to look away from its many problems in a sufficient manner to allow me to love it so unreservedly.
My Family and Other Animals is a memoir about an eccentric English family of independent means who, between the World Wars, go off to live on an idyllic Greek Island called Corfu. It is told from the perspective of the youngest in the family, the only one who really was still a grade school kid, Gerry. He was a largely fearless, absolutely animal crazy kid for whom Corfu was heaven. The descriptions of the Island and fauna can be wonderful, and the sense of adventure is charming. I love how Gerry seems to run into idiosyncratic but always delightful and helpful people on the island. It's like his unrestrained interest in everything that walks, crawls, swims and flies, brings out the best qualities in himself and his dog and everyone he runs into.
So, good enough so far. This all is why I remembered the book so fondly from younger days.
Oh, but sometimes.
First of all there is the problem of Gerry having to catch and capture and own every damn animal! I don't suppose I shout much at books, or, maybe I do, but more in my head, and at this one I often enough found myself sort of shouting at young Gerry "Just leave the beautiful animal alone! It is a hundred year old magnificent Tortoise! It does not want to live in your bedroom!" I suppose it should be no surprise then that our author grew up to be a zookeeper. I'm afraid though that's rather like saying "Our author grew up to be the Warden at a jail for innocent people." I just had a hard time getting all that out of my head, maybe because it belonged in my head while I was reading the thing.
My other difficulty was Gerry's family. I think they always reminded me a bit of my own family, only better. It's just that there was plenty of room with my family for a different family to be better than mine before that family was actually good. I quite like stories about eccentric families, but I find they tend to fall into one of two categories. The first I will call the Addams Family version because they're such an excellent example. This eccentric family is underpinned by harmony and love. They delight, whether quietly or loudly, in the qualities, pursuits, natures, and successes of their relatives. Their eccentricity issues from their centeredness, their pure love and interest standing in contrast to received ideologies, that is, in contrast to the often false and self serving ideas of our culture, and social norms. They are not normal. They don't do things the way we assume things should be done, and they are better for it. The other kind of family is clever, antagonistic, and often playfully at odds with one another. Except the playfulness is sometimes just a disguise for being mean. Alliances shift among them, they sometimes come together against outside forces, but while they may or may not like to suggest their bond is, deep down, really love, it never feels like it. And love is a feeling, so if it doesn't feel like it I don't believe it. Sadly, the eccentric family in My Family and Other Animals is rather far more in this latter category than the enchanting and more rare Addams Family version.
So, yes, a good and bad book. It is sort of recommended, once loved, now more... mixed. Do I take it off the list?
After I can link it to this post? I don't think so!
Saturday, June 28, 2014
Regular sized
Yes, I have been watching the World Cup. Apparently it's this soccer tournament that's very popular in Europe, the Americas, Africa and parts of Asia. Oh, and in Australia too. Probably in Antarctica and possibly in outer space somewhere as well. It has been fun to learn the minutiae of all the rules of the tournament and to race to get nominally up to speed on the sport and players. We have been showing the World Cup on a screen in the Teen room at our library and it's also a treat to stumble upon the diverse collection of followers gathered to watch the games in there. The river of nations flows through my library indeed, and when some fans watching were bitterly disappointed when Cote d'Ivorie lost to Greece and was bumped from the tournament, those people were sad because they actually came from Cote d'Ivorie, unlike me, for instance, whose attachment to Cote d'Ivorie was based on the fact that I like jackets that are an off-white color. So, when I have some break time I generally head to the teen room. I suppose I might even check in there a little more than I should. I enjoy getting briefed by Marcus, the teen librarian in there, who possibly would be considered a futbol Johnny come lately by your random fevered European soccer fan, but is considered something of a knowledgeable devotee out in our part of the world and answers all my questions with an impressive amount of color commentary and background knowledge. But happily I find that whatever librarian is in the teen room when I walk in has some interest in the game.
If there was one point where I went all in on this World Cup, I would have to say it wasn't at some thrilling or beautiful goal or pass or play (though without that there would be nothing), it was when I realized that one of the players was, I believe, five foot four inches tall. That just melted my heart. I think it hearkens back to my first love of sport, baseball in the seventies. It was the end of an American era where baseball was still almost, or just barely, America's sport, the last time that the best athletes might live down the street from you (The 1974 baseball MVP lived down the street from me!) and where that same athlete wasn't likely to be any larger than your local grocer. Shortly after that time Football and Basketball seemed to take over, and with it came gigantic athletes, and it was no longer sufficient to play endlessly and be magnificently talented, you had to be large first.
So soccer has brought me back to that, a sport played on the ground, by mortals who rely entirely upon skill, and are conferred little, indeed probably no, advantage by sporting the mountainous size of some mythological figure or some astonishing great height. On the contrary, the greatest soccer player in the world right now is about my height. And I confess to you that I am not now, nor have I ever been, remotely tall. It gives one a kind of hope. At the very cliff end of my forties I don't know exactly what kind of hope. I will not be playing any World Cup soccer tournaments. But hope nonetheless. Perhaps that there is still a shiver of democracy in the world, that though millions may be whittled down to a rare few, there is still a whisper somewhere of an even playing field.
If there was one point where I went all in on this World Cup, I would have to say it wasn't at some thrilling or beautiful goal or pass or play (though without that there would be nothing), it was when I realized that one of the players was, I believe, five foot four inches tall. That just melted my heart. I think it hearkens back to my first love of sport, baseball in the seventies. It was the end of an American era where baseball was still almost, or just barely, America's sport, the last time that the best athletes might live down the street from you (The 1974 baseball MVP lived down the street from me!) and where that same athlete wasn't likely to be any larger than your local grocer. Shortly after that time Football and Basketball seemed to take over, and with it came gigantic athletes, and it was no longer sufficient to play endlessly and be magnificently talented, you had to be large first.
So soccer has brought me back to that, a sport played on the ground, by mortals who rely entirely upon skill, and are conferred little, indeed probably no, advantage by sporting the mountainous size of some mythological figure or some astonishing great height. On the contrary, the greatest soccer player in the world right now is about my height. And I confess to you that I am not now, nor have I ever been, remotely tall. It gives one a kind of hope. At the very cliff end of my forties I don't know exactly what kind of hope. I will not be playing any World Cup soccer tournaments. But hope nonetheless. Perhaps that there is still a shiver of democracy in the world, that though millions may be whittled down to a rare few, there is still a whisper somewhere of an even playing field.
Friday, June 27, 2014
Best blog on the Internet part 412
I am occasionally seized with the desire to call this the best blog on the Internet. Feeling that some seizures are best indulged so that they can get a bit of exercise, I generally give reign to my evaluation. I haven't yet changed my blog masthead to read "The Best Blog On the Internet", but it could happen at any moment. I suppose there's a bit of the circus spirit in my giant claim, magic tricks, pratfalls, showmanship. You will see things here beyond the limits of human imagination!
But no matter what my reasons, when I start talking about my blog being the best blog on the Internet, THE BEST BLOG ON THE INTERNET, you invariably think one of the following things:
1. Oh, this.
2. Who can say? Maybe it is. Maybe it isn't
3. There are other "blogs"? Tell me about these "blogs".
4. How did I get to this page. I just want to figure out my plumbing problem. I hate the Internet!
5. Drat, I guess I'm not going to be mentioned in the blog again today!
6. My blog would be better than this one, if I wrote one.
7. I wonder if I should have spaghetti for dinner?
8. Damn straight this is the best blog on the Internet! I would tell people, only, who would believe that I, Bob Dylan, am so fond of a Blog?
But of course that list, though comprehensive, is also a mere sketch. Each and every one of you is ultimately fathomless, multivarious, endless, and subtle beyond any possibility of full accounting. Even if one of my above options captures the exact phrase that might run through your mind when I call this the best blog on the Internet, it is no real match. It is like saying a cappuccino is water run through crushed coffee beans with milk added. Yes, it is accurate, but it leaves off so much nuance and essence as to be painful to one who loves cappuccino. And that description is a best case scenario, just if I got your particular phrase exactly right in my list above.
But you and I know that really, "best", the whole idea of "best", is an illusion. There is no best blog, or best song, or best book, or best coffee, or best cheese, or best painting, or best world cup goal.
For good or ill we know that such things and ideas are a game. Or at least I know it when I take some deep breaths and remember.
There is only love, and life, and all that is broken.
But no matter what my reasons, when I start talking about my blog being the best blog on the Internet, THE BEST BLOG ON THE INTERNET, you invariably think one of the following things:
1. Oh, this.
2. Who can say? Maybe it is. Maybe it isn't
3. There are other "blogs"? Tell me about these "blogs".
4. How did I get to this page. I just want to figure out my plumbing problem. I hate the Internet!
5. Drat, I guess I'm not going to be mentioned in the blog again today!
6. My blog would be better than this one, if I wrote one.
7. I wonder if I should have spaghetti for dinner?
8. Damn straight this is the best blog on the Internet! I would tell people, only, who would believe that I, Bob Dylan, am so fond of a Blog?
But of course that list, though comprehensive, is also a mere sketch. Each and every one of you is ultimately fathomless, multivarious, endless, and subtle beyond any possibility of full accounting. Even if one of my above options captures the exact phrase that might run through your mind when I call this the best blog on the Internet, it is no real match. It is like saying a cappuccino is water run through crushed coffee beans with milk added. Yes, it is accurate, but it leaves off so much nuance and essence as to be painful to one who loves cappuccino. And that description is a best case scenario, just if I got your particular phrase exactly right in my list above.
But you and I know that really, "best", the whole idea of "best", is an illusion. There is no best blog, or best song, or best book, or best coffee, or best cheese, or best painting, or best world cup goal.
For good or ill we know that such things and ideas are a game. Or at least I know it when I take some deep breaths and remember.
There is only love, and life, and all that is broken.
Thursday, June 26, 2014
Hotter for others
I was very hot again today. I don't believe it even made it to 85 and yet I was not alone in my suffering. I heard several other of my ice bucket colleagues complain about the heat. Wary of how much I complain I devised some secret rules for how much complaining is allowable. It's not just how much one doesn't complain during the winter that allows for summer complaining, it's a balance of not complaining when others are complaining versus complaining when others are extolling the weather. I, for instance, was very non complainy about the weather this past intense Winter, and lots of people around me complained. This earned me a lot of complaining credit, but, as you may be able to tell from my bitter posts about the 82 degree weather just a few days into summer, I am recklessly burning through my complaining stockpile.
All of this has made me more aware of how other people feel about the weather here, perhaps even in a way I haven't much noticed before. Having become, at least for the past year or so, a person for whom there is no level of cold that actually makes me unhappy, and for whom 78 starts to enter dangerous territory, I have sussed out the not insignificant band of co-workers and people about town who feel the same way. I have noted the people I walked with out into the dark bitter winter nights who inhaled deeply, in a way that said "Refreshing! Bracing! Invigorating!" And too I have seen who comes inside from these 83 degrees and sunny days and says "Echh! It's hot out there!" I take a kind of comfort in these people. I am not a freak, I am merely Eskimo leaning.
And I have been so absorbed in my strange new temperature range, my expanded cold-heartiness and perhaps slightly reduced tolerance for heat, that I have not, until now, noticed that, up here in Minnesota I am by no means at the extreme. Just the other day we had a child over for dinner at my house, and while we were getting ready for ice cream a brief discussion about the weather and Summer came up. The kid said emphatically "Anything over 50 degrees is too hot for me."
What a statement! What a kid! Get that kid a dog sled. Stop global warming now!
All of this has made me more aware of how other people feel about the weather here, perhaps even in a way I haven't much noticed before. Having become, at least for the past year or so, a person for whom there is no level of cold that actually makes me unhappy, and for whom 78 starts to enter dangerous territory, I have sussed out the not insignificant band of co-workers and people about town who feel the same way. I have noted the people I walked with out into the dark bitter winter nights who inhaled deeply, in a way that said "Refreshing! Bracing! Invigorating!" And too I have seen who comes inside from these 83 degrees and sunny days and says "Echh! It's hot out there!" I take a kind of comfort in these people. I am not a freak, I am merely Eskimo leaning.
And I have been so absorbed in my strange new temperature range, my expanded cold-heartiness and perhaps slightly reduced tolerance for heat, that I have not, until now, noticed that, up here in Minnesota I am by no means at the extreme. Just the other day we had a child over for dinner at my house, and while we were getting ready for ice cream a brief discussion about the weather and Summer came up. The kid said emphatically "Anything over 50 degrees is too hot for me."
What a statement! What a kid! Get that kid a dog sled. Stop global warming now!
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
Promotion
All week when I am not thinking up ideas for blog posts, or writing those posts in my head, but I am nevertheless thinking about my blog, I think about clever ways to promote my blog. These are vast, ornate schemes that will bring it the worldwide notoriety that I feel my blog so richly deserves. I only manage to stop thinking of my promotion schemes by telling myself I can do them all on Thursday, Thursday is my big, down in the basement studio day, where I can fiddle with my blog endlessly and without interruption. A day of endless possibility and opportunity. Thus I defer it all to my Thursday self.
Fortunately I have always been a wiser person on Thursday, and so when Thursday comes I do far, far more clever things than promote my blog. I sleep late. I embed strange comments into what is already the vast history of my blog. I make fruit syrups to add to soda water. I become involved in The World Cup. I read whatever is closest to me. I walk on water. I close my eyes and try to watch the world grow older. And all these things that might normally seem a bit throwaway to me become the friendly things that help me resist promoting my blog.
Now, at this point you might be wondering "Is promoting your blog so bad?"
No, no. Not at all. There are many people out there in the world who I feel should be doing just that. I think it would be good for them, a rich and satisfying hobby. I believe there are many people who take a much too passive approach to the arts, too corporate, too convenient, and for whom promoting my blog would be the perfect antidote for them, a bracing tang of bitterness, an antibody in their blood, a minute stake in the hidden culture and the mystery steam works of the world.
But I am not one of these people.
And neither are you.
I will see you here again tomorrow forever.
Fortunately I have always been a wiser person on Thursday, and so when Thursday comes I do far, far more clever things than promote my blog. I sleep late. I embed strange comments into what is already the vast history of my blog. I make fruit syrups to add to soda water. I become involved in The World Cup. I read whatever is closest to me. I walk on water. I close my eyes and try to watch the world grow older. And all these things that might normally seem a bit throwaway to me become the friendly things that help me resist promoting my blog.
Now, at this point you might be wondering "Is promoting your blog so bad?"
No, no. Not at all. There are many people out there in the world who I feel should be doing just that. I think it would be good for them, a rich and satisfying hobby. I believe there are many people who take a much too passive approach to the arts, too corporate, too convenient, and for whom promoting my blog would be the perfect antidote for them, a bracing tang of bitterness, an antibody in their blood, a minute stake in the hidden culture and the mystery steam works of the world.
But I am not one of these people.
And neither are you.
I will see you here again tomorrow forever.
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
More Internet snapshots
The issue of the Internet comes up. People say to me spontaneously, at least every once in awhile, "The Internet is amazing!" And I am invariably compelled to answer this comment with "It seems to think so."
But there are problems beyond, or perhaps underneath, the Internet's astounding, creepy, viral skill at self promotion.
The biggest real problem with the Internet is that we don't know how to use it. Or maybe I need to put that differently. The amount of time, knowledge, skill, focus, discipline and dedication to use it properly is beyond all but the most dedicated professionals and the most rabid of Internet hobbyists. The rest of us use it like a stick, or better, like children with a dazzling shiny toy vastly beyond our developmental level . "Look! A button!" We cry. And we click. "I can click!" We cry. "Look! Funny! Ha!" We laugh. "Beautiful!" Click. "Oh, that's not what I thought was going to happen!" Click. "Kitty!" We say. Click, click, click, click. "What do I click?" Click the loud thing, the big thing, the mysterious thing. Communicate! Know! Click, click, click. We get a phone so we can have the Internet in our pocket. The Internet is too amazing to do without! "I am playing checkers in my pocket!" We cry.
"Do you have a small checkers set in your pocket?" Someone born in the 1900's asks.
"No!" You reply breathlessly "I have one of the most sophisticated technological devices in the universe!"
"So it does more than play checker?"
"Check this out!" You fumble with your phone. "This just takes a minute." You say. "Shoot. I hope I didn't get it wet." Then you say things about things not working lately. You might also say some mysterious grumbly things about reception. "I need to log in for this. I don't know why logging in takes so long!" Then "Here!" You cry triumphantly, handing your phone over.
"The screen's blank." The person says.
"Hmm." You say. "Oh, just hit this. Here. Wait." You take back your phone and tap. "There!" You exclaim, handing the phone back again.
"Is that your hermit crab?"
"Yes, I have 130,000 pictures of my hermit crab!"
"Cute. Can I see some?"
"Sure." You say. "Here." You take back your phone and begin fiddling. Then you crash your car.
But there are problems beyond, or perhaps underneath, the Internet's astounding, creepy, viral skill at self promotion.
The biggest real problem with the Internet is that we don't know how to use it. Or maybe I need to put that differently. The amount of time, knowledge, skill, focus, discipline and dedication to use it properly is beyond all but the most dedicated professionals and the most rabid of Internet hobbyists. The rest of us use it like a stick, or better, like children with a dazzling shiny toy vastly beyond our developmental level . "Look! A button!" We cry. And we click. "I can click!" We cry. "Look! Funny! Ha!" We laugh. "Beautiful!" Click. "Oh, that's not what I thought was going to happen!" Click. "Kitty!" We say. Click, click, click, click. "What do I click?" Click the loud thing, the big thing, the mysterious thing. Communicate! Know! Click, click, click. We get a phone so we can have the Internet in our pocket. The Internet is too amazing to do without! "I am playing checkers in my pocket!" We cry.
"Do you have a small checkers set in your pocket?" Someone born in the 1900's asks.
"No!" You reply breathlessly "I have one of the most sophisticated technological devices in the universe!"
"So it does more than play checker?"
"Check this out!" You fumble with your phone. "This just takes a minute." You say. "Shoot. I hope I didn't get it wet." Then you say things about things not working lately. You might also say some mysterious grumbly things about reception. "I need to log in for this. I don't know why logging in takes so long!" Then "Here!" You cry triumphantly, handing your phone over.
"The screen's blank." The person says.
"Hmm." You say. "Oh, just hit this. Here. Wait." You take back your phone and tap. "There!" You exclaim, handing the phone back again.
"Is that your hermit crab?"
"Yes, I have 130,000 pictures of my hermit crab!"
"Cute. Can I see some?"
"Sure." You say. "Here." You take back your phone and begin fiddling. Then you crash your car.
Monday, June 23, 2014
Three stories
People bring me stories. This surprises me a bit because I think of myself as going around constantly telling stories. But no, I guess it's not constantly, because, along with all my many blog post ideas, jokes, and scattered observations, I find bits of other peoples' stories in my pockets, or in my brain, or, let us say, in my beak. Clearly some people are managing to tell me stories, and I, magpie, bring them all back here and make my endless nest, bit by bit.
Yes, you are in a warren of nests, a maze of nests, and birds are being born all around you. Little birds. Can you hear them?
I will tell you three stories now. The reason I am telling them all in a group is not because they are too slight to support individual blog posts of their own, but rather because they came natively in their own odd little group. Each story appeared in one day, indeed in a single one hour period, and though I have not sussed out a common theme, they are mysteriously magnetized, by their shared birth, into a group. They are triplets, though by no means identical ones.
1. I have the slip of paper in my pocket now. It was a request for information that one of our librarians received. The librarian gave me the piece of paper, a memento if you will because we had discussed this person's requests in the past. The patron wanted information on, or an example of "An explosive or dangerous mechanical part". That's the whole of what my little piece of paper says "An explosive or dangerous mechanical part". This particular patron comes in and her requests are all like this. "I need an example of a common liquid that burns or poisons when you touch it." You know, that sort of thing.
When I thought about telling you about this request, and about this patron's other strange requests, all of them requested with dead emotions and passionless earnestness, I thought you might worry. I wondered how to explain this person to you in a way that would let you know that no one is likely to be in any danger.
I came up with this:
Whenever there is some horrible murder or bombing or shooting spree and the villain is identified, people who knew the villain, or were merely vaguely acquainted with the villain, never say this: "I had no idea that this person was capable of operating a gun trigger."
2. Okay, this one is my story. I was at the desk, in between collecting stories. A librarian came up and gave me a lost card that someone turned in to her. Following procedure I put a note on the patron's record and I put the card in our lost card file. I helped a few more people. A regular patron with a bushy white beard came up to me at the desk. "I found someone's card." He said, pointing back to where he found it and handing me the card.
It was the same card!
3. My co-worker, who was working the front desk with me, said she didn't have any good stories. She only had other peoples' stories. She then told me a very good story that was her own.
She was sitting on the balcony of her apartment with her husband. They live on the river! And they saw a big eagle on a branch because bald eagles love the river. It was raining and the eagle was wet and majestic. Then, as they were admiring the glorious bald eagle it shuddered as if in preparation for some momentous action. They were thinking that the eagle would maybe spread its wings to take flight and a scattered stream of crystal rain water would fly in a great spray into the air as the great bird lifted heavily into the sky.
Instead the eagle took a big poop.
Yes, you are in a warren of nests, a maze of nests, and birds are being born all around you. Little birds. Can you hear them?
I will tell you three stories now. The reason I am telling them all in a group is not because they are too slight to support individual blog posts of their own, but rather because they came natively in their own odd little group. Each story appeared in one day, indeed in a single one hour period, and though I have not sussed out a common theme, they are mysteriously magnetized, by their shared birth, into a group. They are triplets, though by no means identical ones.
1. I have the slip of paper in my pocket now. It was a request for information that one of our librarians received. The librarian gave me the piece of paper, a memento if you will because we had discussed this person's requests in the past. The patron wanted information on, or an example of "An explosive or dangerous mechanical part". That's the whole of what my little piece of paper says "An explosive or dangerous mechanical part". This particular patron comes in and her requests are all like this. "I need an example of a common liquid that burns or poisons when you touch it." You know, that sort of thing.
When I thought about telling you about this request, and about this patron's other strange requests, all of them requested with dead emotions and passionless earnestness, I thought you might worry. I wondered how to explain this person to you in a way that would let you know that no one is likely to be in any danger.
I came up with this:
Whenever there is some horrible murder or bombing or shooting spree and the villain is identified, people who knew the villain, or were merely vaguely acquainted with the villain, never say this: "I had no idea that this person was capable of operating a gun trigger."
2. Okay, this one is my story. I was at the desk, in between collecting stories. A librarian came up and gave me a lost card that someone turned in to her. Following procedure I put a note on the patron's record and I put the card in our lost card file. I helped a few more people. A regular patron with a bushy white beard came up to me at the desk. "I found someone's card." He said, pointing back to where he found it and handing me the card.
It was the same card!
3. My co-worker, who was working the front desk with me, said she didn't have any good stories. She only had other peoples' stories. She then told me a very good story that was her own.
She was sitting on the balcony of her apartment with her husband. They live on the river! And they saw a big eagle on a branch because bald eagles love the river. It was raining and the eagle was wet and majestic. Then, as they were admiring the glorious bald eagle it shuddered as if in preparation for some momentous action. They were thinking that the eagle would maybe spread its wings to take flight and a scattered stream of crystal rain water would fly in a great spray into the air as the great bird lifted heavily into the sky.
Instead the eagle took a big poop.
Sunday, June 22, 2014
No plan
I just love the idea of the Sunday post. I don't have to have any idea ahead of time. I just sit down and write. There's no secret plan or concept I have to explain or justify. I'm not trying to recall all the bits of thoughts I came up with earlier in preparation, and I don't have to piece them all into a coherent vision. I have no responsibility. Its freedom time! I just talk.
So, what should we talk about?
Um.
Boy this freedom's great!
Very fun.
I can do anything! And it's just for me. No one else's opinion matters!
How do you like it so far?
So, what should we talk about?
Um.
Boy this freedom's great!
Very fun.
I can do anything! And it's just for me. No one else's opinion matters!
How do you like it so far?
Saturday, June 21, 2014
Secrets of the desk
You, the patron, see three clerks gathered up at the front service desk. It looks like they might be talking about something important! They keep pointing up at a high place on the atrium walls, but when you look up there you can't see anything out of order. Then one of the clerks gestures towards the floor. "Water damage?" You wonder, "The recounting of a recent accident?". You think maybe it would be better to poke around a bit more instead of going up now for help and so interrupting them. Let them finish their important business, although, you do wonder a little what they're talking about. Something is happening and it's human nature to wonder. What, after all, is going on behind the scenes at your local library?
Well, luckily I was one of those clerks, and fortunately I am here to pull back the veil for you and reveal our secrets!
I see one of my co-workers at the front desk. She is pointing up towards the ceiling, generally our way of indicating where the fiction stacks are, so I go out and join my colleagues, what with how I have a couple minutes before I'm supposed to be somewhere.
"Are the Peregrine Falcons back?" I ask, looking up, because I like an occasional comic routine. Then I theatrically add for benefit of my non pointing colleague "We have a pair of Peregrine Falcons that are nesting up on the wall up there.
My co-worker who was pointing, and who I sometimes suspect is funnier than me, says "The librarians upstairs have been bringing in dead mice for them."
"The problem" I say to the non pointing co-worker who has been cast as our audience "Is that they can't reach the nests and so have to just sort of try and toss the mice across to them. But mostly they miss and we end up with piles of dead mice down on the floor in front of the requests."
And with that, we're done.
There, they can help you at the front desk now.
Well, luckily I was one of those clerks, and fortunately I am here to pull back the veil for you and reveal our secrets!
I see one of my co-workers at the front desk. She is pointing up towards the ceiling, generally our way of indicating where the fiction stacks are, so I go out and join my colleagues, what with how I have a couple minutes before I'm supposed to be somewhere.
"Are the Peregrine Falcons back?" I ask, looking up, because I like an occasional comic routine. Then I theatrically add for benefit of my non pointing colleague "We have a pair of Peregrine Falcons that are nesting up on the wall up there.
My co-worker who was pointing, and who I sometimes suspect is funnier than me, says "The librarians upstairs have been bringing in dead mice for them."
"The problem" I say to the non pointing co-worker who has been cast as our audience "Is that they can't reach the nests and so have to just sort of try and toss the mice across to them. But mostly they miss and we end up with piles of dead mice down on the floor in front of the requests."
And with that, we're done.
There, they can help you at the front desk now.
Friday, June 20, 2014
Energy
I have looked at occasional co-workers that burst with energy and felt a kind of wonder. There they are running around the library with all that gusto, and there I am. Yes, there. See me? Just reading that book there for a little. I think I'm resting. Am I staring into space? Oh, there, I'm up! I bet I'm going to shelve a ton of stuff. Nope, false alarm. I appear to have just thought of a joke I wanted to tell all my co-workers. There I am telling the joke to whatever co-workers I can find, and that patron there. I think the patron likes it. Now I am helping the patron. Now I wandered over to another book. Now I am resting again. There I am thinking about things. This is all making me wonder when I work. Oh, right, I remember, it's because we're watching me. I try only to work when no one is looking. We better go back to the blog post so I can get something done.
I used to think that energy is something some people (not me) have a lot of, and some people (me) don't have so much of. But writing every day here has taught me something else. Energy comes in different forms, and for different things.
Let's roll back the clock on this blog post a bit. See that person, one of those ones with the energy we started out talking about. Look at them go. They are shelving this, and pushing that, and running over to get that. Sure I can get all critical about their lack of efficiency, but that's not what we're here for. This person, for instance, is pretty focused, dogged even, and just look at how much she's getting done. A lot! It's a nice use of energy.
Now let's go forward to me. Reading, hmm, resting, wait, that's not resting. Can you see my mind whirring? My mind is whirring! I'm up! I'm off to tell the joke. I don't tell it the same. I shift it, rewrite it in little ways. I bring in the patron as part of the community of the library. The patron needs a book. I know that book cause six weeks ago I read a bit of it while leaning against some transit boxes, or while sipping cappuccino somewhere. I know what the cover looks like. I have a feeling I just saw it somewhere. I get it for the patron. Another book catches my eye. Someone told me about it. A blog post starts stirring in my mind. I think I'd better shelve a cart as quick as I can because there are things I need to write down.
Energy.
It belongs to the active and the indolent. It is smart and bland and blind and keen. And in the end it is invisible. We see only the effects of it, and embodied they can be utterly obvious or artfully concealed. Shimmering with life or... smuggled through.
I used to think I was somehow shorted on energy, but it's not like that. It just depends. Here, let's go find me again, doing my quick shelving up in the stacks. There I am in the large type section. Oh, I'm reading again. We'll just wait a bit.
Boy, that's a lot of reading.
Could someone maybe try and get my attention there. I'm trying to use me to make a point. What am I so interested in? Can you see what I'm reading? Oh, yes, my, that is interesting. I'll just sort of hover here over my shoulder for a while, looking on.
I used to think that energy is something some people (not me) have a lot of, and some people (me) don't have so much of. But writing every day here has taught me something else. Energy comes in different forms, and for different things.
Let's roll back the clock on this blog post a bit. See that person, one of those ones with the energy we started out talking about. Look at them go. They are shelving this, and pushing that, and running over to get that. Sure I can get all critical about their lack of efficiency, but that's not what we're here for. This person, for instance, is pretty focused, dogged even, and just look at how much she's getting done. A lot! It's a nice use of energy.
Now let's go forward to me. Reading, hmm, resting, wait, that's not resting. Can you see my mind whirring? My mind is whirring! I'm up! I'm off to tell the joke. I don't tell it the same. I shift it, rewrite it in little ways. I bring in the patron as part of the community of the library. The patron needs a book. I know that book cause six weeks ago I read a bit of it while leaning against some transit boxes, or while sipping cappuccino somewhere. I know what the cover looks like. I have a feeling I just saw it somewhere. I get it for the patron. Another book catches my eye. Someone told me about it. A blog post starts stirring in my mind. I think I'd better shelve a cart as quick as I can because there are things I need to write down.
Energy.
It belongs to the active and the indolent. It is smart and bland and blind and keen. And in the end it is invisible. We see only the effects of it, and embodied they can be utterly obvious or artfully concealed. Shimmering with life or... smuggled through.
I used to think I was somehow shorted on energy, but it's not like that. It just depends. Here, let's go find me again, doing my quick shelving up in the stacks. There I am in the large type section. Oh, I'm reading again. We'll just wait a bit.
Boy, that's a lot of reading.
Could someone maybe try and get my attention there. I'm trying to use me to make a point. What am I so interested in? Can you see what I'm reading? Oh, yes, my, that is interesting. I'll just sort of hover here over my shoulder for a while, looking on.
Thursday, June 19, 2014
Precious city
I stepped out of my small, lovely house this morning to find a beautiful day. Or, at least, it was a beautiful day for half a mile of walking, so, I am saying, there was ten minutes worth of beautiful day. Then it was hot and I was reduced once again to being Gollum. "Ach! The sun! She burns, she burns us. We hates it!" Then I'd walk under a tree and it would be a beautiful day again for the seven seconds it took to walk through that shadow. "Oh beauteous irises, glinting graceful in the dappled shade. Your purple, sunshine song of summer...AAAAH! IT BITES! CRUEL SUN SHE BITES, SHE BURRRNNS US!" By the time I got to my bike station I was a damp, hot, weeping cloud of misery.
And it was fine.
I live in the Twin Cities. Our sensible quality of life is widely considered to be attributable to the fierceness of our climate. Whether that fierceness be ascribed, as it commonly is, to winters full of minus 20 and minus 30 degree temperatures, or whether it is, perhaps more unusually, ascribed instead to all the cruel, cruel times in June, July, and August where it grows humid and the temperature climbs above a beastly 82 degrees, is immaterial. The key thing is that most of the hoi polloi stay away, and the sociopathic impulses so common in places like Arizona and Mississippi tend to freeze to death. And so our cities, thus protected, can get so very nice that it's practically like Western Europe here; exotic architecture, the best parks and bike paths in the country, and coffee shops not, perhaps, to rival Rome, but better than Venice, London, Lisbon, and L.A., not that anyone from there would have any idea.
Their loss.
And if I have to endure yearly ice and fire purges for this paradise, well, so be it. Anything for my cities, for they are precious to me, yes precious, preeecccioouusss!
And it was fine.
I live in the Twin Cities. Our sensible quality of life is widely considered to be attributable to the fierceness of our climate. Whether that fierceness be ascribed, as it commonly is, to winters full of minus 20 and minus 30 degree temperatures, or whether it is, perhaps more unusually, ascribed instead to all the cruel, cruel times in June, July, and August where it grows humid and the temperature climbs above a beastly 82 degrees, is immaterial. The key thing is that most of the hoi polloi stay away, and the sociopathic impulses so common in places like Arizona and Mississippi tend to freeze to death. And so our cities, thus protected, can get so very nice that it's practically like Western Europe here; exotic architecture, the best parks and bike paths in the country, and coffee shops not, perhaps, to rival Rome, but better than Venice, London, Lisbon, and L.A., not that anyone from there would have any idea.
Their loss.
And if I have to endure yearly ice and fire purges for this paradise, well, so be it. Anything for my cities, for they are precious to me, yes precious, preeecccioouusss!
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
Joke week
Is it joke week?
Anger week, Joke week. Do we now have weekly themes here on clerkmanifesto?
Only by accident. Like when a car crashes and all the cars behind it can't stop fast enough.
So I was looking at that joke about a centipede and walked right into it. And I wrote a joke.
You get to hear the joke now.
Why?
Because it is joke week!
I hope we don't get whiplash.
Okay, so, this joke is in the classic question and answer format. The question and answer format sounds challenging, but is merely rhetorical. Your only job ever in this joke format is to answer the question with "I don't know", unless, of course, you already know the joke, in which case you say, regretfully, "Oh, I've heard this one." But you can't have heard this one because I just wrote it today! So, anyway, there will be a question, then a long space where you can just sort of think "I don't know" and then there will be the allegedly funny part, at which point joke week will be over and everyone will drive a lot more carefully around here.
Ready?
No, that's not it. Here. We'll start now.
Why are there no Muslim Eskimos?
Because when Ramadan comes during the Summer Solstice they all starve to death.
Anger week, Joke week. Do we now have weekly themes here on clerkmanifesto?
Only by accident. Like when a car crashes and all the cars behind it can't stop fast enough.
So I was looking at that joke about a centipede and walked right into it. And I wrote a joke.
You get to hear the joke now.
Why?
Because it is joke week!
I hope we don't get whiplash.
Okay, so, this joke is in the classic question and answer format. The question and answer format sounds challenging, but is merely rhetorical. Your only job ever in this joke format is to answer the question with "I don't know", unless, of course, you already know the joke, in which case you say, regretfully, "Oh, I've heard this one." But you can't have heard this one because I just wrote it today! So, anyway, there will be a question, then a long space where you can just sort of think "I don't know" and then there will be the allegedly funny part, at which point joke week will be over and everyone will drive a lot more carefully around here.
Ready?
No, that's not it. Here. We'll start now.
Why are there no Muslim Eskimos?
Because when Ramadan comes during the Summer Solstice they all starve to death.
Tuesday, June 17, 2014
The reading wave
I have been riding a reading wave. It is a big, beautiful wave, and I just keep going and going. I know it can't last forever, but boy is it sweet while I glide down its perfectly formed curl, my hand outstretched, skidding playfully along the translucent blue wall of water next to me. I am lost in a dream.
Eh? What's a reading wave? Oh, you know. You're riding one right now, cruising down the face of this wicked and dangerous blog, delighted, enjoying yourself, ready for whatever's next because it all works for you. It all comes home. Bells ring out in your heart. "Ah, what is that?" you say. "Sweet, sharp and burning truth. This feels right."
Lost you? Perhaps you are part of the two percent of our readership for whom it's all a bit more like hilly biking than hanging ten. We will start again, just for you, and when your legs grow so strong that all the hills of this blog are like the joyous surfing of a force of nature, please remember and be patient when we stop to collect all the wipeouts. These are some big waves!
What I mean by riding a reading wave is that all the books I have been reading have been great successes for me. Every book I have picked up for a month I have liked or loved. No diffidence, no wondering why so many people are wasting my time, no doubting that I even like books, no. It is all beautiful. The things I have been re-reading (Wise Man's Fear, My Family and Other Animals) seem somehow richer now that I can look more closely at them, now that there is no need to wolf them down, race through them, see what happens next, decide. I can look around in them and lo, there is their heart sitting plain to see, all beautiful and quiet and clear. The new things I read (The Absolutely True Story of a Part-Time Indian, The Saga comic series, Snow Crash) are allowed inside me where they tear open my oyster heart or crack open my walnut brain and reveal the sweet meat inside. We are good. Bless the books that let us know it. Oh, all these kind books. Let them talk!
Has my judgement gone? Are these books flawless? No. I can think of flaws for every one. But I will not tell you what they are. You can find out for yourself. But first you must run the gauntlet of love.
Is it me, someplace I'm in, more receptive, more ready for the written word, story, for people guilelessly crafting with their hearts? Or am I just reading the right books? Am I just getting lucky?
I don't care! The water throws me. I fall. The water catches me. And I am flying. Cowabunga.
Eh? What's a reading wave? Oh, you know. You're riding one right now, cruising down the face of this wicked and dangerous blog, delighted, enjoying yourself, ready for whatever's next because it all works for you. It all comes home. Bells ring out in your heart. "Ah, what is that?" you say. "Sweet, sharp and burning truth. This feels right."
Lost you? Perhaps you are part of the two percent of our readership for whom it's all a bit more like hilly biking than hanging ten. We will start again, just for you, and when your legs grow so strong that all the hills of this blog are like the joyous surfing of a force of nature, please remember and be patient when we stop to collect all the wipeouts. These are some big waves!
What I mean by riding a reading wave is that all the books I have been reading have been great successes for me. Every book I have picked up for a month I have liked or loved. No diffidence, no wondering why so many people are wasting my time, no doubting that I even like books, no. It is all beautiful. The things I have been re-reading (Wise Man's Fear, My Family and Other Animals) seem somehow richer now that I can look more closely at them, now that there is no need to wolf them down, race through them, see what happens next, decide. I can look around in them and lo, there is their heart sitting plain to see, all beautiful and quiet and clear. The new things I read (The Absolutely True Story of a Part-Time Indian, The Saga comic series, Snow Crash) are allowed inside me where they tear open my oyster heart or crack open my walnut brain and reveal the sweet meat inside. We are good. Bless the books that let us know it. Oh, all these kind books. Let them talk!
Has my judgement gone? Are these books flawless? No. I can think of flaws for every one. But I will not tell you what they are. You can find out for yourself. But first you must run the gauntlet of love.
Is it me, someplace I'm in, more receptive, more ready for the written word, story, for people guilelessly crafting with their hearts? Or am I just reading the right books? Am I just getting lucky?
I don't care! The water throws me. I fall. The water catches me. And I am flying. Cowabunga.
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