It's a Boy!

With the departure of J, we've been muddling on as best as we can--splitting the weekends and the closing shifts between Supermom Librarian, and Cathy, and myself. And thank god, we got the approval to promote from within another FT librarian position.

The interviews were a couple of weeks ago--three folks all interviewed. And since then, the rest of us have been awaiting the announcement with baited breath, eagerly curious to know the librarian's identity--much, in the same way, I imagine, that new parents want to know the gender of their unborn child. And when I shared this with one of the candidates, he chuckled: "And you're saying, 'so long as its healthy.'" And it's true! All of them were/are great candidates. So, so long as it's a good worker...

And I've been helping the Captain get the old Foundation cubicle ready--much like we are preparing a nursery.

In fact, I had begun referring to the unknown new Librarian as "Baby Librarian." I feel like a big sister, looking forward to the arrival of a new sibling!

But now, the wait appears to be over. It seems that they have chosen Papa Bear to be the lucky new librarian (we all know that Baby Librarian will not fly with him). And while I am disappointed for the other two candidates, a pragmatic part of me thinks, well, once the Captain retires, he'd be a good candidate for Principal Librarian. I'm all about the longevity and stability of the staff.

In short, I'm now planning Baby Librarian (AKA Papa Bear's) future like a parent or a sibling plans the child's future success in college and beyond

Yet another indication of how this wonderful Library and staff are my home and family...

Archive THIS...or not

Recently I finished a book that's been on my list for a good long while: This Book is Overdue: How Librarians and Cybrarians Can Save Us All, by Marilyn Johnson. While it may in fact be a book that preaches to the choir (really, I'm not the one who needs to be convinced of how awesome my profession is), I still took away some interesting insights and encouraging words.

One of the most interesting--and in a way, serendipitous--passages in the book was the one in which the author took a crash-course in the Archiving of Literary Manuscripts. I smiled a little as I read the description of how she learned how to identify, and arrange, and describe the materials, as well as decide what to keep and what to throw it. It was like I was back in Phillip Bantin's Archives and Records Management Class, circa 2004--fat lot of good that stuff ever did for me, intrepid little public librarian that I am. The closest I've come to archiving any materials or special collections is when I threw out the special collections at the Baby Sunnydale Library, back when I first became a librarian. (And if that's not a perfect metaphor for the transition from my Library Student Life to my Adult Librarian Life, I don't know what is.)

But then, the narrative turned a little more interesting, a little more personal. The author mentioned that the teacher of the class was using, for examples and training materials and to practice  on, the works and correspondence of her own husband, an unpublished writer. Was this narcissism, or arrogance, or exploitation on the part of the trainer? Hell no. As Johnson points out, "it had been a deliberate strategy to show us that the tools of archiving were not only for Nobel and Pulitzer winners and MacArthur fellows. They were for anybody any of us thought worth saving."

She didn't add, but I thought, Including ourselves.

Which brings me to this:

For years, I've been hauling around an ever-growing stack of notebooks, binders, journals, and folders, all filled with all sorts of nonsense, from lists to useless, barely-begun poetry, to drunken ramblings, to observations made in the depths of my lowest depression, to half-finished research, to rough drafts of letters, to lists of shopping, and chores, and god knows that else. And this autumn, I've started going through the laborious process of sifting through this stuff and trying to winnow down this ridiculous stack of papers. 

Stop-for just a moment. What if I were a famous author or thinker or whatever-er, and were saying this? Or what if we realized that this was a previously undiscovered cache of personal Bronte papers, or Dickens, or  Lincoln, or whoever? Hell, no, we wouldn't be winnowing that shit down.

Johnson continues: And who is worth saving? Ah, that's the question. Certainly we are worth saving ourselves, whoever we are, if only for our family's sake. If we are helping build or create something [...]we might want to document it somehow and save the evidence. We are all living history, and it's hard to say now what will be important in the future. One thing's certain, though: if we throw it away, it's gone.

I never thought of my own personal papers in terms of archives. And honestly, I still don't. But I do happen to appreciate a couple of facts: First, my life and my story are not yet done. I don't have grand ambitions to run a city library or gain national notice through a socio-economic agenda, or hell, even publish a book or become famous. As far as I know, as far as I can plan and hope, my life will be a quiet one, humble, lived in both the shadow of the mountain and others. But I don't know what's coming around the turn next, or where I will end up. To decide what I find valuable to save for myself is one thing--but without knowing how my story ends, is it the wisest move to throw out the supporting documentation that make up the chapters of my story?

Is it a wise move for any of us to do that?

The other thing I know is this: I don't know how and where I fit in the context of history, because, as Johnson points out,  I am living history. We all are. I don't have a sufficient overview or perspective to know or anticipate what will matter to scholars and historians and...well, anyone, 50, or 100, or even 500 years down the road. None of us do. And with that in mind, should I then be throwing out any of these things in my pile?

Of course, this might just be the excuse that hoarders were asking for.

On the Reference Desk This Week

Patron: Blah blah I love the Bride of Frankenstein. I wonder where she gets her hair done. And her dress, I love her dress!

Librarian: Did you have a question, ma'am?

Patron: You're a stupid bitch! You're all stupid bitches! You are bad at what you do, and God's gonna send you to hell for it!

Librarian: ...Mom?

(It wasn't actually the librarian's mother, and the librarian didn't actually say that. Librarian just  happens to have a good sense of humor and a notoriously unkind and loopy mother.)

Manic Monday: October 28 Edition

Back when I was a wee one, I used to do my homework every night before dinner. It was one of Crazy Elaine's rules that I followed so readily. So I'd haul home my math book and reading book and spelling book and try my hardest to figure out what all  the numbers meant, and tear my way through the stories, and carefully, methodically work on my spelling. For some reason, spelling was my favorite--another memory: Crazy Elaine spelling the words with me before I left for the bus stop in the  morning--especially putting the words in alphabetical order. Something about the logical order of it all (and yes, there may have been that in math, too, but it was lost on me) appealed to me.

So late this afternoon, when the Cap'n mentioned that we needed to merge 4 spreadsheets of donor names and get them into alphabetical order by tomorrow morning, Dorkface here was all over that shit. In fact, Dorkface had to do a little bit of battle over it with the Great Dustini, who apparently wanted the diversion of setting up all the names in an Access Database.

(Maybe I'm not the biggest Dorkface in the Library.)

Anyway, I promised Cap'n I'd have it done by 7 ("I'll just take a long lunch one day this week!"), and so I won out, and by 6:10 p.m. I was happily cutting and pasting and muttering over mistakes and duplications. And true to my word, I was done by 7.

Between that, and some of the librarians unable to work their shifts, and urgent press releases, by the end of the day, my desk looked like Hurricane Monday had torn through.

In my world, a day in which I am too busy to clean my desk is defined as a very very good day.

Driving home this evening, I indulged in what feels like a daily ritual of finding some beauty in my desert and life. It wasn't hard; the weather has turned positively autumnal by our desert standards. It's been blustery all day, with a few obligingly grey clouds skittering across our usually-empty desert skies, and once the sun set, it got downright chilly. And I was driving home to Mr. Melissa, who had made dinner, and I had a little work project to tool about with. (In my world, the concept of taking home work projects that I enjoy is the height of awesomeness). What wasn't beautiful about this Monday?

Other than my desk, that is.

Freud-day Fun, Part 1

A few weeks back, my Life Guru advised me that I needed to get some spirituality. This was not advice that I necessarily disagreed with, but it did take me aback a little. Was this advice that she went around giving all of her clients? I actually asked her this, but she assured me that no, this wasn't the case.

So, then, why me?

"Why me?"

Her response:

"You tie your worth into all that you do, or try to accomplish, or your productivity. But it's important for you to know that you matter in the Universe, regardless of who you are or what you do."

Do I matter? Most days, I would say no, I don't believe so. I won't go so far as to say that  one matters (I don't have the right to dismiss anyone else's existence, only my own). I feel like I'm insignificant, not a key player in anything, by any stretch. This isn't self-pity or self-loathing (although I do have both, in spades), but rather simply a weary world-view that I cannot seem to shake.

But, like many of the things I do, I shall try to "suit up and show up and act as if." Or fake it 'til I make it. Or something. Which is why I shall try to document my quiet little life, to show that I matter, if only to myself.

So, it's 11:30 at night, and I am perched on the loveseat in the sitting room, listening to "The Last Unicorn" by America, and my cat Austen is sitting right behind me, purring in my ear. I'm trying not to think of all the blogs I've started and abandoned over the years. I've paused in reading my 12th book of the month, This Book is Overdue. I'm thinking that I've had a very productive day--I went to the eye doctor and the therapist and I dropped off a library book and picked up prescriptions and did laundry and napped and watched Supernatural and I tried, though failed, to donate blood (and I have to start taking iron again), and I read and worked on my jigsaw puzzle. And now I am sitting here writing this and thinking, what's the point? Who will read it? And then thinking, The point is that it doesn't matter if no one reads it. What matters is that YOU are WRITING it, and may one day read it. That's enough, right there. This is your life, right now. This is you, trying to matter to YOURSELF.

Overheard on the Reference Desk, Entry 2

The patron: "I need to renew my teaching credentials from the State of ___ . But I don't know how to use a computer. At all. I'm very different, I'm a psychic, and I don't use computers. Is there anyone I can pay to do this work for me? I'm a very special person, a victim of incest, and so I've never used a computer."

The librarian (not me): "...............???"

Right then was one of those times when I swear to god someone hires people to come in and try to punk us.

Nights like these...

On nights when the praise of my patrons and bosses and colleagues seems faint;
on nights when my husband is remote and preoccupied
on nights when I wonder, yet again, how I ended up here,
on nights when it feels like I have never been further away from my kin,
on nights when I come close to learning just what regret tastes like...

My little cat Austen, my gentle-souled cat in a furry tuxedo, he perches up by my pillow or couch cushion, near to my head, and he purrs loudly, and he invites me to wearily lean my head in and remind myself that perhaps, after all, I have made a difference. That my presence, my sacrifices, my mistakes have benefitted someone, even if it's just a single domestic short-haired cat.

It's a strange sort of comfort, but on nights like these, I will take what I can get.