i know this story and it goes like this: i am working at the library. its three o clock and camps are just getting out. another nine to the nine scorcher and the kiddies are just getting out of camp. the three thirty rush hits. summer reading lists and carts and carts of books to shelve. i know the titles like they are my former lovers. i know their rips and tears like i am the tape that binds them. the library's perk is air conditioning but in this dry heat my hair is sticking to the back of neck and i am the color of the previous day's good measure.
huff. i am onamonapea in my action.
"do you know the book where the hippo..." "fifth grade" "
mr. alligator in the closet" "...tells its mother it loves it, and then..." "fiction" "easyreader" "books for babies in five different..." "Swahili for kindergartners?"
i have been here too long. and i dont mean this never ending shift *9 to 5, what a way to make a living* i learned to walk in that corner, read my first word on that couch. i have been with the library longer than my last three boyfriends. it never gets easier.
i can think of a million and five times i should have quit. an infinite amount of times i should have perfected my creative skills enough to write a book of my boring experiences.
1. the day i was sent down to the downstairs kitchen that reeked of sewage to wash the babytime toys
2. the first time i was told to put mr. alligator in his inventoried box in the closet by the claustrophobic librarian.
3. the day after when i was introduced to said librarian buffy-enshrined desk
i am a creature of routine. if i could remember the hebrew word for consistency, it would be my middle name. everything is habit. my thought pattern included.
think about how i ended up here.
today's primary thought. how to be a better writer. think of all recently read literary books. mourn lack of intelligence in oneself. praise the ability to recognize such literary people who are better than oneself.
its actually quite sick but i play games with my thought processes. you think, now what early childhood trauma has caused this? well, obviously, i dont remember...
subconscious level 1: quiet prayer to god that not too many people from high school come into the library. 1a. desperate plea to same god that chris jones of the academic decathlon freshman year breezes into my public place of work from his ivy-league college and with one look falls madly and deeply in love.
secret hope 2: wonder desperately. why did my senior year writing teacher not want to have a torrid affair? is god real? does god exist?
spinoza's wager...no...someone else's wager. believe in god, nothing to lose.
hidden wonder #453987: why do
friends sometimes suck?
desperate worry #15486435783248a:
am i doomed to a jessie spano future?
flashback: room 115, 2001-2002 school year, january
question being asked: can't remember
answer: hahahahahaha yea come visit me in ten years when i'm in rehab for multiple abuses of legal and illegal substances
flashback2: hands shake like a parkinson's patient on crack, finals week, tears unable to come to key location of eye. computer screen blinks: 500 grams equals overdose. can't can't concentrate still still. "i heard...the phone... i came...okay?"
foolish desire 3: plans for future: president of the world, soccer mom *worry #255489633: long term relationships?*
(foolish desire3 cont'd) pts president, aclu lawyer, senator, ballerina, another person
buzz. the sound of the intercom has trained me to go get the cart of incoming books. patrons are inequitably drawn to the just returned. i think it has the same pull as rummaging through celebrities garbage. you have to hope that in all this shit is something good.
i am up for a game of jewish whiplash.
perk#1 about living in a jewish town with a jewish name and not being everyone's ideal anne frank: it leds to confusion. name that screams jew with a hair color that is aryan pleasing +pants=rubber-necking.
library advise:: a book lover is easy to spot. a reader is obvious is in the shape of the book. take your average paperback off the shelf in your house. say it you tell everyone it is your absolute favorite.
how to tell a liar:
*if the spine is cracked, not just down the middle but in twos and threes, this book has been used. the reader is not afraid to open the book completely.
*pages sometimes have remnants of foreign substances i.e. sand etc
*a loved book is sloppy seconds to anyone but the original owner. it broken in by one person but can be loved again.
what comes after work....
a. go out
b. go in
c. drive away
1. home 2. 7-11 3. someplace
why do minutes go by slowly when one begs for them to pass with a greater ease...a minute feels a year "organize the summ..." crash "i'll put it" [child's name screamed here]