Misadventures of the Monster Librarian

And since I am still moving and haven't had time to write more, here is another gem. Re-stumbled upon this tonight.     From "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry" ...The impalpable sustenance of me from all things at all hours of the day, The simple, compact, well-join'd scheme, myself disintegrated, every one disintegrated yet part of the scheme, The similitudes of the past and those of the future, The glories strung like beads on my smallest sights and hearings, on the walk in the street and the passage over the river, The current rushing so swiftly and swimming with me far away, The others that are to follow me, the ties between me and them, The certainty of others, the life, love, sight, hearing of others. Others will enter the gates of the ferry and cross from shore to shore, Others will watch the run of the flood-tide, Others will see the shipping of Manhattan north and west, and the heights of Brooklyn to the south and east, Others will see the islands lar

I moved yet more stuff into my little cabin last night, and yet I still have a few more boxes to go. The goal, nay promise to RugbyGirl, is that I will be entirely moved out by tomorrow afternoon. Working at the new library gig tonight (not so new anymore...over a month now :) and then off to a holiday party at a fellow farmer's house, then tomorrow begins my 3 day weekend. And so, while I am still occupied and not posting much, enjoy this gem from myfirstdictionary blog.

I am finally living the Thoreau dream...well, kinda..I am not totally apart from others...though was he really? More on this soon, but it is late and I work at 6:30am and need some zzzs!! "I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my n

"At the fishhouses" Although it is a cold evening, down by one of the fishhouses an old man sits netting, his net, in the gloaming almost invisible, a dark purple-brown, and his shuttle worn and polished. The air smells so strong of codfish it makes one's nose run and one's eyes water. The five fishhouses have steeply peaked roofs and narrow, cleated gangplanks slant up to storerooms in the gables for the wheelbarrows to be pushed up and down on. All is silver: the heavy surface of the sea, swelling slowly as if considering spilling over, is opaque, but the silver of the benches, the lobster pots, and masts, scattered among the wild jagged rocks, is of an apparent translucence like the small old buildings with an emerald moss growing on their shoreward walls. The big fish tubs are completely lined with layers of beautiful herring scales and the wheelbarrows are similarly plastered with creamy iridescent coats of mail, with small iridescent fl

Frost At Midnight  The Frost performs its secret ministry, Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry Came loud--and hark, again ! loud as before. The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, Have left me to that solitude, which suits Abstruser musings : save that at my side My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. 'Tis calm indeed ! so calm, that it disturbs And vexes meditation with its strange And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood, This populous village ! Sea, and hill, and wood, With all the numberless goings-on of life, Inaudible as dreams ! the thin blue flame Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not; Only that film, which fluttered on the grate, Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing. Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature Gives it dim sympathies with me who live, Making it a companionable form, Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit By its own moods interprets, every where Echo or mirror seeking of itself, And makes a toy of Thought.

"Seeker of truth" seeker of truth follow no path all paths lead where truth is here e.e.Cummings 

  I needed a shot of some girl power tonight and I found it in this kick ass picture by Amanda Visell .  I have been feeling all of these things lately. And I have finally been feeling stronger, recovering from my week long cold; feeling buoyed and very supported lately by some great friends: Best friends L, K, College Kim and Mummy Dearest. Thanks ladies! Together we could run the world!

Just found two hilarious blogs: Here on the Praries and My first dictionary , and have been sitting here (in the Alternative U Library for my last official shift) laughing my ass off for the last hour.  These funny pics are from My first dictionary. Love it.

Reading other people's blogs always gives me ideas for blogs when I can't think of anything creative to write about. Reading What's New Pussycat , I liked this idea: "Five Minutes " Imagine you will completely lose your memory of 2010 in five minutes. Set an alarm for five minutes and capture the things you most want to remember about 2010.  --Author: Patti Digh So, here goes: growing things in my garden, watching them grow, digging my toes and bare feet into the soil making pickles reading stories with Big and Little Fish, M & S, Monster Niece S and Nephew A my older brother A3 getting engaged my old, dear friend (and former roommate) College Kim getting engaged being at my godchild Viv's Baptism, celebrating with my best friends my godchild Viv's 1st bday (I couldn't be there but just knowing she is 1 and walking and happy and healthy is enough! HP7 hiking more (not enough, but more than last year) knowing that I LIVE and WORK

I love reading A Librarian's Guide to Etiquette . If I knew this person, we'd be friends. I can picture us now, sitting at a bar somewhere, musing over ridiculous library life and laughing our heads off. According to ALGTE:  "A good librarian should have enough appliqued holiday sweaters so that he or she can wear a different one each day from Thanksgiving to Christmas.  If you wear the same Rudolph sweater over and over, you may inadvertently subject your library coworkers to the condition known as festive fleece fatigue."    

I woke up to the gentle patter of rain on a cabin roof. I guess I should mention that I requested and was granted a week's stay in a currently vacant cabin on the Farm, not far from my own house. This has been an interesting experiment of silence and solitude and a reawakening of my senses. Staying in a slightly foreign (foreign in the sense that I only ever spent minimal time there when TSO lived in this very cabin) place has given me the opportunity of getting used to new sounds: heater hisses, house groans, rain falling on moss and brush; has shown me how different and new the very same stars can seem--maybe it is the very clarity of mind which makes these stars appear more luminous? I woke up to rain softly falling on said roof, and a tightness in my throat. I have a sore throat and ear ache, and on my day off too! I stopped by the kitchen to do a weekly order and wound up doing some quick dough batches for them because they are short staffed today and just got another call

Yes, yes, I am still stuck with art on the brain. Stumbled across these gems. The above picture reminded me of work, titled: KITCHEN, Pablo Picasso. The other painting, Woman with a cat, Fernand Leger , looks like me on the weekends--reading with Bravo our cat.

I loved the way that the sun felt on my face in southern Spain; much like my surroundings, it felt foreign. The sun there even seemed to seep into my skin and brain and be speaking in a foreign tongue. It browned my skin as it whispered to me, wandering alongside me--a companion--as we explored Moor-inspired old towns; over bridges, old and new: "hola amiga, te extrano mucho." I wish I could be in Spain right now, instead of glued to this desk chair in the library. *Sigh.* I am feeling wanderlust again...hmm... I am thinking of Spain because I was reading about/ooking at paintings by Picasso because I was reading e.e. cummings',  "Picasso." (My mind sometimes reminds me of the Laura Numeroff series , If you give a moose a muffin , et alia. Picasso is someone I have always admired--we met when I was a Spanish student in high school--because he always told the truth of what he was seeing. Picasso painted beautiful, breathtaking things: dancing, love, music, food

I love e.e. cummings. Some of his poems make me sigh and smile, some make me feel jumbled up and confused, and some poems just make me think...hmmm... "i am a beggar always" i am a beggar always who begs in your mind (slightly smiling, patient, unspeaking with a sign on his chest BLIND)yes i am this person of whom somehow you are never wholly rid(and who does not ask for more than just enough dreams to live on) after all, kid you might as well toss him a few thoughts a little love preferably, anything which you can't pass off on other people: for instance a plugged promise- the he will maybe (hearing something fall into his hat)go wandering after it with fingers;till having found what was thrown away himself taptaptaps out of your brain, hopes, life to(carefully turning a corner)never bother you any more ~ e.e. cummings

When I can't sleep I sit in the quiet and dark of night: book-less, cover-less, companion-less. Having crept from my bed; stolen from my room; quietly emerged into the skin-tingling cold of the early winter, snowless nights; sit. I draw from my inner stores of silence, not allowing a muscle to move, lest I break the magic of the witching hour. I sit entranced, wrapped as tightly as I can manage, cradling myself; a mother-less baby. Minutes? Hours? Days? A seeming lifetime was spent in this very fashion this very morning. I owned the night-turning-early morning. I was thanked for my solitude, my watchfulness by a falling star; burning out as I too burnt out, spending the last stores of the previous days' energy. Sonnet 14 ("Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck") Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck, And yet methinks I have astronomy; But not to tell of good or evil luck, Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality; Nor can I fortune to brief

So much about this time of year speaks to light and darkness, even for those who don't believe in Christmas or God. While many Christians believe that Christ, the light of the world, comes at Christmas time--helping usher us out of this time of darkness--Pagans believe that at this time of year, the winter solstice is a something which allows us to celebrate light and the rebirth of the sun. Whatever your belief, how can you not be absolutely enthralled by the presence of so much light?: holiday lights sparkling, twinkling; or if you are sans-city lights, just look at how bright the stars seem to shine against the black sky of winter! I was seeking inspiration, and as I always do, turned to poetry, this time to e.e. cummings (another old favorite who seems almost a friend). This poem made me think of light and glory and the vast hugeness that this time of year can feel like to me; a dark world just waiting to swallow me whole. Go find some of your own light out in this beautiful