I am not the same person I was 10 and 20 and 30 years ago. There are parts of me that have changed, and parts that have stayed the same. I still need to be loved and admired and sought after. I still desire pleasure and thrill and surprise. Laughter and happiness and love are sacred. These are values that defined me in childhood, in adolescence, in my youthful adulthood, and even now as I settle gently into middle age.
Lots of details have changed, though. I used to believe in unicorns. I used to look for fairies in the woods. I once thought my father knew everything. I used to be a passionate vegetarian. I used to think abortion shouldn’t be legal. I once felt I was pacifist. I once worshipped Goddesses. I used to think I needed a Jesus to save me from something. I once wanted to be a rich and famous actor who is loved and admired by millions. I used to think I could touch people through the medium of live theatre. I thought I’d believe all of those things forever.
So many passions and fantasies and desires and truly honest beliefs, discarded as new information becomes available. It’s not as though I feel these beliefs are now “wrong,” I’m just somewhere else now. As new experiences occur, as my life goes on, evidence amasses that changes the nature of my foundational beliefs. And my personality shifts. My body changes. My hair, my voice, my speech patterns, my clothing, my friends.
I love the flow and patterns of life, even when they beat the shit out of me. Even when they fucking suck. This is my life. This is my story. This is me.
Of course, I’m nobody, really. If we’re thinking in terms of geological time and the billions of years that this planet has existed with life constantly evolving on it, and the billions more years that life will continue to change and evolve, my own life is nothing. Inconsequential.
Fortunately for my ego, human brains think locally. We live in the moment, and within the span of a few years we do all of our living and fighting and fucking and dying, making up some crazy drama along the way, just to try to make some sense of it all. We make our lives and the things in our lives important. We create the life we want within the environment that we find ourselves. Because we like it to make sense. That’s comforting.
So my life, as tiny as it is, makes ripples. I interact with the world around me and I change it, and it changes me. I make my contributions in the ways that make me who I am. I create humor. I tell stories. I make fun.
I wonder what I will think and believe and know when I’m 50. And 60, 70, 80, etc. If I get that far. Which I hope I will. I want to be a little old lady with lots of cats and a foul mouth. Ooh, and a cane. Then the neighborhood kids will swap stories about me (“She trains her cats to suck out kids souls!”) and dare each other to throw rocks at the witch’s house. The ones who let their fears get the best of them will never know that the best chocolate chip cookies they’ve ever tasted are cooling on the kitchen counter.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Bibliophile
I love the library. The public library, of course, although private and university libraries are also awesome. I’ve been going as long as I remember. By the time my childhood memories began to solidify, going to the library was already a firmly cemented tradition. My mom was even the story lady for a while (she even dressed up in costumes and made puppets for it). Being an Air Force Brat, I got a new library every few years, and each one was a pirate’s treasure of discoveries. Where is the card catalog in this one? Where are the easy readers? The chapter books? Are there mats to lie down and read on, or just tables?
I vaguely remember posters and wall art and other decorative nonsense, but I can’t picture any details, since I was always in the stacks. It was so soothing to follow the numbered tags on the spines with my eyes, so comforting to walk past and let my fingers slide past each one, thin spines and thick, fabric and paper. And everywhere the lovely musty smell of old books.
Each book is a unique translation of one human being’s mind, even authors long dead. Open any book, fiction or non-fiction, references, field guides, self-help, science, history, hobbies, arts, gardening – any book in the library. Open the book and read the words. These words were thought up by another human being and written down for others to examine. Look inside the author’s mind. What does she say? What doesn’t she say? What does he believe? When was this written and in what context? What inspired the author to tell his story to others? A dream? Divine inspiration? The Voices? So much is revealed about another in the words they write for the world to see. So many ideas. So many perceptions and beliefs and stories and experiences. I fall in love with humanity when I read the words that have been recorded, even if they’re utter shit. Even the crappiest book I’ve ever read was written by a person who was in love with it. That amazes and inspires me.
So the public library is where humans come to absorb the ideas of other humans, translated into words and written down into books that you can take home and read for free. There are all kinds of folks there, too. I see homeless men, upper middle class housewives, Hebrew school boys, hairy vegan girls, mommies and daddies of all stripes with kids in tow, be-mulleted lesbians, street kids, old black ladies in hats and gloves, assorted balding nerds, and last week I could have sworn I even saw my ex-husband (speaking of balding nerds). It’s a nice cross-section of the population of Savannah.
This is as close as I get to church y’all. The reverence, the enforced silence, the patterns of walking through the stacks like the meditation of a labyrinth inspire such peace and awe. I’m also intimidated by the quiet, invariably introverted and often quite tall librarians. These massive, silent goddesses scan my card and see my account, my reading list laid out before their giant glasses that see all my thoughts through the books I read. Do they notice? Do they make judgments about this woman who always wears black and reads books about science and botany and gardening and feminism and health and Savannah history and horses and religious and spiritual books of all shapes and sizes? Do they see me? If they do, they say nothing. They are beautiful and mysterious.
My kid is not even 2 ½ and he’s already in love with the library, too. It’s school and church and Disney land all at the same time (he thinks the elevator is a fun ride). We do storytime and he’s so in love with the ladies that do that. He used to just sit on my lap and watch, but now he scootches up close to see the books better and he even does the Hokey Pokey and turns himself around. Maybe that IS what it’s all about.
I vaguely remember posters and wall art and other decorative nonsense, but I can’t picture any details, since I was always in the stacks. It was so soothing to follow the numbered tags on the spines with my eyes, so comforting to walk past and let my fingers slide past each one, thin spines and thick, fabric and paper. And everywhere the lovely musty smell of old books.
Each book is a unique translation of one human being’s mind, even authors long dead. Open any book, fiction or non-fiction, references, field guides, self-help, science, history, hobbies, arts, gardening – any book in the library. Open the book and read the words. These words were thought up by another human being and written down for others to examine. Look inside the author’s mind. What does she say? What doesn’t she say? What does he believe? When was this written and in what context? What inspired the author to tell his story to others? A dream? Divine inspiration? The Voices? So much is revealed about another in the words they write for the world to see. So many ideas. So many perceptions and beliefs and stories and experiences. I fall in love with humanity when I read the words that have been recorded, even if they’re utter shit. Even the crappiest book I’ve ever read was written by a person who was in love with it. That amazes and inspires me.
So the public library is where humans come to absorb the ideas of other humans, translated into words and written down into books that you can take home and read for free. There are all kinds of folks there, too. I see homeless men, upper middle class housewives, Hebrew school boys, hairy vegan girls, mommies and daddies of all stripes with kids in tow, be-mulleted lesbians, street kids, old black ladies in hats and gloves, assorted balding nerds, and last week I could have sworn I even saw my ex-husband (speaking of balding nerds). It’s a nice cross-section of the population of Savannah.
This is as close as I get to church y’all. The reverence, the enforced silence, the patterns of walking through the stacks like the meditation of a labyrinth inspire such peace and awe. I’m also intimidated by the quiet, invariably introverted and often quite tall librarians. These massive, silent goddesses scan my card and see my account, my reading list laid out before their giant glasses that see all my thoughts through the books I read. Do they notice? Do they make judgments about this woman who always wears black and reads books about science and botany and gardening and feminism and health and Savannah history and horses and religious and spiritual books of all shapes and sizes? Do they see me? If they do, they say nothing. They are beautiful and mysterious.
My kid is not even 2 ½ and he’s already in love with the library, too. It’s school and church and Disney land all at the same time (he thinks the elevator is a fun ride). We do storytime and he’s so in love with the ladies that do that. He used to just sit on my lap and watch, but now he scootches up close to see the books better and he even does the Hokey Pokey and turns himself around. Maybe that IS what it’s all about.
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