Today was a good day for a Tuesday–not that days of the week have much meaning for me.
In Crawfordville, FL., Tuesday is the day after the weekend, which in library-time is Sunday and Monday. The library is open until 8 p.m. so I can get a couple of extra hours of free Internet.
The website of the Florida Writers Association lists the monthly meeting of the Crawfordville chapter for today, the second Tuesday, at 6:30. I dropped a note to the contact person listed as, Proudmommaof (fill in a kid’s name here) @aol.com, who wrote back she’d moved away long ago and had no idea if the club continued to meet. I asked at the library, and no one on the staff had ever heard of the group. No matter.
I stopped in this library a week ago–the day after I finished Persepolis2 and got Persepolis. These are graphic books, graphic as in cartoon-style, not as in harlequin. I liked them and picked up from the ‘net the info they’d been made into a graphic movie, animated cartoon-style. I asked if the library had it, and they told me they did, but it had been checked. No matter.
So, when I was back this week, I asked for the DVD, and they told me it was checked out. Hmmm. I asked when it was due back.
Tapity-tap on her keyboard and a moment later the library lady said, “August 10, 2011”. Then she looked at me and deadpanned, “Probably not coming back.”
So I fussed with email and responded to some comments about yesterday’s blog, “The Villages, the Dark Side,” which was drawing a remarkable number of comments.
A lady near my perch in the library was sorting and straightening magazines. She was the library’s version of a candy-striper, a volunteer taking up some of the budget-cut slack. I asked if they had The Sun. She brightened. “Yes, it is a wonderful magazine that I never heard of until someone in town donated her copy after she’d read it. I have two issues over here in the pile of excess magazines that the public is welcome to take.”
I don’t think The Sun is sold at newsstands; I never see it. Since I left the Bay Area, I haven’t met anyone who’s ever heard of it. Two issues I could take and savor like French postcards—that’ll do until a writers’ club meeting comes along.
Behind The Sun were some Smithsonian Magazines. I took eight of them. And something called Bookmarks, and a copy of Sierra. I started to walk away listing to port and noticed the feature story in Foreign Affairs was authored by Hilary Clinton, so I picked up that issue–and six others.
Now I am down by my Plimsoll Line, but no matter.
The natural state of my 200 square-foot living space is clutter. My Inner Neatnik abandoned me long ago. For years I’ve sought a cure for my addiction to paper. And, now, in a near catatonic state, I stare at the foot-high stack of magazines that is smothering a pile of mail, opened paperbacks, and maps. I knew they followed me home like stray puppies, but no one believes me. No matter.
I have an epiphany. Not to worry, I do not have an addiction to paper. I have an addiction to ink.
I know, I know. Today’s post differs from the ordinary output from the Jolly Swag. It’s what happens when you read “Sy Safransky’s Notebook” on the last page of The Sun, then sit down to write something. No matter. It was fun for me.