hapaxnym

At least once a week, people come up to the reference desk and start a conversation with me that is clearly meant to be a continuation of a question they asked (a week? a month? a year?) earlier, and is a little offended that I can't pick up where the discussion left off.

My beloved spouse commented recently that he wherever he goes now, from Cleveland to Kenya, he's always sure to run into a former student or someone who attended one of his lectures, who expects him to recognize names, faces, and research interests.

Kit Whitfield ( an author I much admire, if frequently disagree with) has commented frequently upon the asymmetric relationship between writers and readers, and how when the latter has invested so much emotional and intellectual energy into the former's work, they feel somehow cheated when the author doesn't feel the same sort of personal connection.

All of these are, I guess, a consequence of the very natural human assumption that I, personally, am the center of the universe, and anything that has an impact upon me will reverberate throughout the cosmos, bestowing unforgettable echoes upon everyone with whom I interact.   (And so it should be!)

But I've been thinking about how internet affects this kind of dynamic.  On the one hand, it often feels very personal and intimate.  Someone posts something upon a blog, and it aligns with, affects, or aggravates an issue that I take an interest in.  Others comment upon it, and we agree or disagree, we laugh at each other's jokes, take offense at each other's words, admire each other's intellect, mock each other's laziness.  There is a real sense of interaction, of community.

But is this all an illusion?  In truth, we are far separated in space, in time, staring into our individual screens and stroking our isolated keypads.  Much of that which we say, ostensibly to each other, is really spoken to ourselves, to shore up dearly held convictions, to examine questionable assumptions, to reassure ourselves that we are truly clever, and witty, and kind.

Which doesn't mean that we can't hurt each other.  Lord knows I've caused pain: sometimes knowingly, because I felt something was important enough to say that I've been willing to bear the sin of another's hurt, which grieves me, and I've agonized about that here.  Much more often inadvertently, with a sloppy argument, or a careless word choice, or an ill-considered joke.  And I've taken hurt, too;  I've got a temper, and a tendency to take things personally, and a huge array of bright shiny buttons that any number of casual conversations can push.

But once my emotional overreactions cool, I hope I've never had the hubris to really think it's been All About Me.  I know I've fretted about Oh Noes! Mean People On Teh Internetz! for as long as twelve hours.  Once I think I maintained an online grudge for as long as a week.  But generally speaking, the world is very big, and I am very small;  and I am grateful that it should be so.  I don't really wish to be remembered, or called out, or taken as important enough to address personally;  that's a dreadful responsibility.  I much prefer to keep my tiny corner as tidy and pretty as I can, and to venture out into the Wide World without preconceptions, and to welcome such visitors as stop by with courtesy and diffidence.

My mental space is pretty much full, after all, with family and friends, and fascinating fictional characters (those created by others, and a few demanding personalities of my own).  I don't have the mental energy to invest in making online acquaintances into permanent parts of my psyche (except for the pleasant sort of recognition that *this* particular handle usually indicates witty snark, that one insightful analyses, this other one frustrating incomprehensibility) any more than I count on my favorite authors to inquire into my recent surgery, or expect national pundits I read to comment on my local school board elections.  I not only do not think that particular posts are aimed at me, or that particular commenters think of me, but I furthermore should be astonished and appalled if they did any such thing. 

Of course, I do remember one diner that I frequented in New York City.  It was cheap, it was convenient, and I fell into the habit of going there for breakfast every day at about the same time, and ordering the exact same thing.

Then one day they had my breakfast waiting for me when I walked in. 

I was touched and flattered.  But I was also somewhat horrified.  What if I had been running late that day?  What if my doctor had ordered me to give up bacon?  What if I had found someplace closer that offered fresher and cheaper bagels?  Would they have been out the cost of the meal?  How long would they continue to make it, expecting me to show up?  Was this my responsibility?

What are the obligations of an online acquaintanceship?  What responsibilities am I ignoring?

*Note -- if you think this post is "aimed at you", I assure you it is not.  However, if you think that the thoughts here were prompted by, inspired by your message, you're probably right.  And this is the only answer you're likely to receive.

I had a dream the other night…

Oh dear, in the annals of Four Word Segues of DOOM, I suppose that “I had a dream” ranks only slightly below “We have to talk” as an introduction I’d hope never to hear, but nonetheless, I did have a dream, and it’s been haunting me.  Not in a pleasantly spooky October-ish fashion, with subliminal soundtracks and cold frissons, either.  More like a badly-healed twisted ankle, which I can count on to collapse on me at the most embarrassing time, when I put my foot wrong just so.

There was a little boy, I remember and an enchanted paper doll, and extraordinarily vivid imagery of a crowded ballroom and a recurrent motif of scissors, and a fairly coherent plot (for a dream, at any rate), and simply fabulous outfits, and I’ve been toying with writing it up as a short story and sending it to my writing group.  It was sad, achingly sad, and more than a little puzzling, and maybe they would be so good as to sort it out for me.  (Writing-Group-As-Therapy, bien sur!) 

The dream seemed to me to be all about loss, and loneliness, and the cruelty of compassion, which are rather... odd topics for me to be dreaming about, even with heavy symbolism and gorgeous eighteenth-century costumes.  Not at all my standard run of neuroses, obsessions, and fetishes.  Fortunately, The Ladies With No Name will no doubt assure me that is really All About Sex, since that’s what we always seem to do.  No matter whether we think we are writing science fiction or horror, religion or politics, thinly disguised memoir or crackpot literary theory, we can count on each other to point out, in the most delightfully revelatory manner, that really, we’ve been writing about sex.

Unless, of course, we think that we were writing about sex.  Then for some reason it turns out to really to be All About Death. Or Hope.  Or sometimes Poland.

(my livejournal scheme lacks an emoticon for scribble, scribble, scribble)

Most people who work in public service eventually come to understand that people can be not only scarily dumb but borderline nasty.  Srsly.
 Shortly after this epiphany follows the sad realization that Good Customer Service does not permit leaping over the desk to bash the blathering moron standing before you over the head with a rock.

Public librarians – perhaps due to our determined pathological need to be Friendly and Helpful – seem to be a magnet for people who want to Share the Stupid.

Consider just this morning:

Patron A:

Nicely dressed, soft-spoken woman comes to the Reference Desk, announces that she is A Published Author, and hands me one of her business cards.  I smile and take the card, not bothering to mention that it will shortly be nestled within my circular file.*
 Mrs A (“But I publish under my maiden name of %”) tells me that she is doing research for her next book, and needs some information about the French Revolutionary song The Marseillaise.  Very good; what kind exactly?  The words?  The music?  The history?  The way it was used?

Not exactly, she needs to find what the song means.

"A translation?"

Well… (at this point she leans forward confidentially and lowers her voice, and I began to think “Oh crud” to myself)  what she really needs it to find out who the phrase “impure blood” is talking about.

"Err..." (frantically running the lyrics through my memory)  "I think that was referring to the aristocratic enemy."

"Well, yes, but what made their blood impure?"

Most reference librarians develop a sense for the type of patrons who already "know" the answer to their question (or think they do), and just wants you to confirm it.  So I nod and say, “Can you give you an example of what you mean?”

"Well….  I’m pretty sure they were singing about Napoleon".

Really.  "Napoleon?  Napoleon Bonaparte?"

"He wasn’t really French, you know.  He was Corsican.  And you know what THAT means."

He was born in Corsica?
 "It’s a whattyacallit.  An expression.  For people of “coarse” ancestry.  Because, you know," (and here she leans closer and her voice gets ominous) "his people were Short.  And Dark."

Ai, chihuahua.   Okey-dokey.   I lean back a little.  “Well, you know, the Marseillaise was written in April 1792 and was very quickly adopted as a revolutionary song, and Napoleon didn’t really come to prominence until later.  He wasn't even in France until the next year."

A-I-Write-Under-% gives me a look of profound disappointment.  “You don’t understand.  I. Am. Writing. A. Book.”

Uh-huh.  Got that.  “Do you have a particular reason for believing the song refers to Napoleon?”

“Of course I do.”  Dramatic pause.  “My family is French.”

I wait for more, which doesn’t seem to be forthcoming.  “Uh-huh.”  During this whole conversation, my fingers have been busy with That Funky Librarian Search-y Thang.  “Oh, look.  There’s a book out there discussion rhetoric of violence during the French Revolution.  Would you like me to have that sent here for you?” 

I agree to waive the dollar inter-loan charge, since I had been so Unhelpful and Ignorant, and as she goes away I take a look at her business card before tossing it.  “Bringing the Lost to the Lord through the Wonders of Story.” 

Okay, I thinks to myself, surely that’s as weird as it will get this morning.

Enter Patron B:

A sweet-looking older gentleman.  Bright-eyed and inquisitive, like a bald albino ferret.  Deaf as a post. 

(Imagine the following reference interview, therefore, conducted at top volume, punctuated with frequent  interjections of "Eh?" and "What's that, then?")

Patron B wishes to know all about Lilith.  "The female demon from Middle Eastern mythology?"  ask I, and he nods.  Swell!  Something I know about!  Something actually interesting!

I point out that most people have heard of Lilith from Jewish folklore, and suggest starting with one of our Jewish encyclopedias.  "Oh," says he, "I've already done that."

Well, then, where should we go from there? "What more would you like to know?" I excitedly start to run through the possibilities:  Lilith as a figure in psychology, feminism, contemporary spiritual practices ....
Oh, no, nothing like that. "I want the real story."

Umm.  "You want to look at the Talmudic and other Semitic sources?"

"No.  I want to know how Adam met Lilith.  And why he dumped her."

Okay.  Now I'm lost.  "You've read the accounts in the various encyclopedias..."  I trail off suggestively.  He shakes his head.  I try again.  "I know that a lot of writers have used Lilith as a character in their novels..." 
"Nope.  I don't want any fake stuff like the story about Jesus marrying Mary Magdalene in that book by that Italian feller." 

Italian feller?  Right, The Da Vinci Code.  "You know that the story of Lilith is a legend."

"Yes."  An eye roll at me for being so stupid.  "So that's why I want the REAL story."

"Er.  Well.  That's sort of like asking me the "real name" of Santa Claus's wife.  I mean I can find you a lot of stories about Santa Claus that give his wife a name, but..."

Another pity-filled stare.  Why is the crazy librarian talking about Santa Claus instead answering my simple question?

Time to try another tack.  "Maybe if you could tell me what you are hoping to learn from this?"
A sigh of exaggerated patience.  "Well, it's all about women and their ... animal natures, isn't it?" (I cannot at this point begin to convey the combination of disgusted growl and creepy sidelong leer).  Oh.  How obvious.  He expounds, "About how Adam divorced Lilith because she was so argumentative and greedy and she just wanted to take his credit card and spend all his money at the mall."

Ho-kay, issues much? "I think that the story originated a little before credit cards.  Or malls."
Whoops!  Way to forget that the Patron is Always Right!  Mr. B turns to my male colleague (who had been cravenly ignoring the whole exchange with a determined poker face), points at me and asks in a stentorian klaxon, "She's DIVORCED, isn't she?"

Time to fetch the index to the four-volume Mircea Eliade, plunk it down on the desk, and announce, "Oh, I'm sorry, I need to take my break now.  My colleague here will be glad to help you answer any further questions."
Some days I really regret giving up smoking.  'Cause all that's left is for me to steam...

*Tip to authors – Want libraries to add your book to our collection?  Go through a real publisher, not a vanity press.  Or, if your topic is too specialized or your opinions too persecuted or  your prose too, er, avant-garde,  at least bring a copy of the book for me to look at, so I can tell if you have a basic grasp of spelling and grammar before I waste taxpayer money on your work of fevered brilliance.  And don’t tell me “it’s on Amazon” – my dog can get a book listed on Amazon.  With five-star reviews from the cat and the goldfish.

So yesterday was Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers Day, and I really wanted to post something about it.

Alas, I was attacked by the Sinus Infection From Hell, and wasn't really up to being eloquent or even grateful.

So here are my somewhat belated but heartfelt thanks to
 

Douglas Adams

Lloyd Alexander

Isaac Asimov

Sarah Rees Brennan

Lois McMaster Bujold

Eleanor Cameron

Kristen Cashore

Debra Doyle

David Eddings

Doris Egan

Harlan Ellison

Sylvia Engdahl

Philip Jose Farmer

Lynn Flewelling

Robert Heinlein

Sharon Lee

Tanith Lee

James MacDonald

Robin McKinley

Steve Miller

John Myers Myers

Tamora Pierce

Terry Pratchett

James Schmitz

James Tiptree, Jr

Megan Whalen Turner

Kit Whitfield

Patricia Wrede*
 

and to hundreds of others who I am forgetting, but who have filled my brain with questions, my dreams with wonder, and my fingers with a burning desire to emulate.
 

You have done me the incomparable honored of letting me come visit the playground of your minds and hearts and souls. You have opened the treasure of your word-hoard, shared your stories, and thereby restored the universe.
 

The only way I can possibly re-pay this gift is to keep listening and reading. And maybe someday send my own stories floating down the eternal River.
 

(I wanted to write more about some of these authors, and how their stories changed my life, but I am tired and in pain and drugged up and frankly cranky. Maybe some other day...)
 

*I'd better stop this list now, and post -- every time I take a break from it, I come up with more authors...

Beloved spouse is back from a month in Kenya and Ethiopia, bearing largesse of lion-killing clubs, Coptic crosses and icons, Masai textiles, and pounds and pounds of coffee.  Spouse also brings much juicy gossip about various luminaries in the Hominid Gang (none of which I would dare repeat, even in an obscure Livejournal, such a  snakepit is the politics of this field) and enough blood-borne pathogens to keep the CDC happily employed for a decade.  Ah well.   And next month we get to start it all over again, and again...

Still, I shall be happy to be partnered up again.  The children have already relaxed their alarmingly helpful and solicitous behavior.  The dog has contributed a "welcome home!" puddle to the carpet.  Only the parrot continues as is his wont, lurking sullenly on his bar, balefully screeching, as he plots World Domination.

I, the docile and loving helpmeet, have escaped to the office to drink wine, plow through e-mail, and take another bite out of my pile of review ARCs.

Life is, if not good, back to its accustomed rhythm.






 

It feels like I’ve spent this entire month on Deep Serious Conversations about racism, the nature of truth, the doctrine of Hell, the parameters of a soldier’s duty, and suchlike very important topics.

I’m kinda tired of all that.

I think I’ll write today about shopping carts.

Yesterday, at Chez Target, my daughter commented that one of the carts in the parking lot was navy blue instead of bright red. I said it was probably a WallyWorld shopping cart that had accidentally migrated over to the wrong BigBox.

I then alluded to this classic piece of world literature.

Daughter first refused to believe this was a real book, but eventually mused about the possible existence of a group of rabid shopping cart fanciers, sparking the following conversation:
( Jump here for much silliness... )

Arggh. And now back to reviewing.

I swear, if I have to read one more book about the spunky daughter of a medieval lord who disguises herself as a boy and runs away to join a troupe of travelling players, but experiences the Harsh Realities of Life and the Dangers of War and Finds Twu Wuv on the journey, I’m going to stick a fork in my eyes…