Bullet points mean:

•          I’m short on time.

•          I lack creativity for a more elaborate post.

•          And this is the most logical process to get my thoughts out and posted in an efficient way.

•          I’ve never made a blog post like this, so it’s also an opportunity to be creative and distinct.

•          This summer has been very crazy.

•          Sometime last year it was suggested that I go to school (college) in Portland. I really like Portland as a place. The city is grungy and creative, much like Seattle, but it has a slight difference to it. An organic and hippy tendency which I, as a prospective bohemian, appreciate. Not to mention, I have some friends down there who are some of the most gracious and laid-back people on the surface of the earth and I love them. It kind of made sense that I go to college there.

•          I started researching colleges and universities in Portland, hoping to find one that will accept the CLEP credits I’ve accumulated over the past couple years.

 

•          I found one.

•          Portland State University will accept everything I’ve earned so far and apply it to the degree I’ll be studying for through their curriculum.

•          Portland is four hours south-ish from where I currently live, which means attending college there will force me to move to a new place of residency. Which is… well, it’s exciting.

•          For me to apply at PSU I have to send them SAT scores. Unfortunately I never took the SAT after high school, and when I found out I needed to send the university scores from an SAT, the deadline had already come and gone. So I’ll be taking my test on the 3^rd of October. Which is fine and dandy I suppose. But I’m scrambling to get my numbers up to a grade which I’ll be proud to present the school with. So… I’ve been studying. A lot. And I hate math so much, but I’m just fighting through it because I’m going to score well on that test or be damned.

•          My plan and hope is to be moved and settled by the end of September. This means I will be living and working in or near Portland by September 30^th. Which means I have a grand total of four and a half weeks to get a job, find an apartment, and move my earthly belongings to my new place of residency.

•          The time crunch is definitely sinking in and stressing me out.

•          If all goes as planned, I’ll have four months to explore Portland and the surrounding area, save money, and get my school schedule figured out. I’ll apply and start school in January while working part time. It’s going to be a rough haul, but I can do it. If I dedicate myself to my work and my studies I’ll make it out on top in the end.

•          I already begin to miss my friends and family. I’ve started saying my goodbyes and… it’s been hard. Obviously I’ll visit during holidays and whenever I can get away from work, but there will be long stints during which I will be a little isolated from all the people I’ve grown up with. That thought undoubtedly depresses me and I hate thinking about it, but it’s a present reminder that moving forward has two edges to it.

•          I have big plans. Life is exciting and new possibilities are exactly what I need. I’m looking forward to what the future holds.

Other things that happened this summer:

•          I lost twenty pounds through an intentional shift in my lifestyle and now look hot.

•          I quit my job at Ace. This is my last week there.

•          I’ve been reading a lot of books. From Theological Apologetics to Kurt Vonnegut’s zany novels. I’ve read a pretty wide variety and feel I’ve spent my time well, scheduling out my days to make the most of what time I have. My reading list is as follows:

Welcome to the Monkey House – Kurt Vonnegut

Slaughterhouse Five – Kurt Vonnegut

Breakfast of Champions – Kurt Vonnegut

Cat’s Cradle – Kurt Vonnegut

Orthodoxy – G.K. Chesterton

Catch 22 – Joseph Heller

The Stranger – Albert Camus

And possibly others that I forgot… As you can see, I really like Vonnegut’s writing. He was a genius.

•          And last, but not least, I have begun to write poetry. It’s nothing to shake a stick at, but I have a few poems I like. Nothing I’d be bold enough to share on my blog though. One day, maybe, one day.

I'm getting old...

Crandon stared out the window of the car. He watched as the trees sped past and houses and farms disappeared behind them

“You have fun tonight, son?” his father asked, nudging him playfully.

“Uh-huh,” Crandon said, nodding and smiling. “Thanks for taking us.”

“Of course,” Crandon’s father replied. He glanced into the review mirror and smiled when his eyes met those of the small boy in the back seat. “What about you, Marc? You have fun too?”

The boy in the back was a couple years younger than Crandon. He beamed up at the two in the front seats and Crandon shook his head before turning back to the window. His younger brother could be so annoying sometimes. It wasn’t necessarily anything he did, either. He just was. 

The boy’s father reached up and turned the volume knob on the car’s stereo, bringing the music up to a middling volume. Crandon smiled. His dad had always liked music. As long as he could remember his dad had loved music. Crandon preferred when his father played music on their car rides instead of listening to talk radio. The politics always confused and bored Crandon anyway. 

“Did you have fun, Dad?” Marc asked from the back seat.

His father turned the radio down and glanced in the rearview mirror again. “What’s that?” he asked.

“Did you have fun, tonight?” Marc repeated, he used his hands to flatten the wrinkles in his pant legs.

The boys’ father chuckled. “Yeah, I had fun too,” he said. “It’s interesting, I—”

He was interrupted as they approached a four-way junction. It was only a two way stop, and they were driving in the direction that had the right of way. But as they entered the intersection, a large grey truck blundered right past the blatant stop sign and charged through the junction, right for the car Crandon and his brother and father were driving in.

“Hold on, guys,” their father told them in a concerned voice.

All of a sudden the truck collided with the car. It happened so fast, Crandon had no idea what happened and how. It unfolded in an instant. The dashboard seemed to encase his father, the hood crumpled and bent in odd angles, and the stereo wailed out sounding unnatural and ghostly. The windows shattered, spilling glass bits everywhere. A scream erupted from the back seat and Crandon wheeled around in his chair to find his younger brother wailing. Blood trickled from his chin and when he parted his lips, it escaped from the corners of his mouth. He’d bit his tongue and it was bleeding. The sight was horrifying to Crandon, but he was too much lost to shock to say or do anything. His body shook and shivered as if he was freezing.

“You bit your tongue, son. It’s okay. Anything else hurt?” the boys’ father asked. His own body was shaking and his breathing was irregular.

Marc shook his head but continued to cry miserably.

“What about you, son? You alright?”

Crandon just shook his head. “I’m okay,” he said, still shivering. His teeth were chattering now and the pit of his stomach ached. It was as if he’d blinked, and upon reopening his eyes, he found his world flipped upside down.

A man walked up to their car and peered in through the window. His expression was void, like he wasn’t entirely there. “Hey, man, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, alright,” he said. To Crandon it looked like he was speaking to the tires, or the roof, or the hood. He didn’t look at any one of them longer than a brief glance. Then he turned and stumbled away.

Crandon’s father turned to him and laughed. He just laughed, like he’d just heard a funny joke. “He’s drunk. Did you see that? He’s completely drunk. I’m sorry too, buddy. What a drunken idiot.”

Crandon closed his eyes and felt the tears still slip between his eye lids and slide down his cheeks. He was scared and had no idea what would happen to him or his father and brother.

“It’s going to be okay, boys,” Crandon and Marc’s father reassured them, his own teeth chattering as he shook with shock.

In the distance they could hear sirens. And almost in an instant the area was filled with people to help the wreck victims. Crandon’s door was opened and he was lifted out and laid on a hard-backed stretcher. Then they opened the door for his brother and lifted him out as well. 

“We’re gonna put your brother with your dad, is that okay?” someone asked Crandon. He just nodded. It would be better if little brother stayed with dad. Crandon could be brave. He wanted to be brave. But as they lifted him up and loaded him in to the ambulance, the tears continued to flow from his eyes and dampen his face and he didn’t feel so brave. He shivered and someone laid another blanket on him.

The ride to the hospital was quick, and the people in the ambulance asked Crandon only a few questions. When they arrived, they carted him out and rushed him to his own hospital room. He was told his brother would be with him soon and asked if he wanted another blanket or two, which he did.

Eventually Marc was wheeled in to share his room and eventually visitors, including his mother, came to check on him. “How’s dad, mom? Is he okay?” Crandon asked.

“He’s just down the hall, Crandon. He’s in a lot of pain, but the doctors say he’ll be alright,” she said, taking his small hand in her own. “He hurt his shoulder pretty bad.” She rose and stepped towards the door. “I’m going to wait in his room. You two should try to get some sleep.”

She flicked off the lights and went out, leaving the boys to try to sleep. Crandon reached out blindly and found Marc’s hand on his bed. He closed his own hand around the smaller boy’s fingers and squeezed. Then he shut his eyes and tried to surrender himself to sleep.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hopefully my tie in doesn’t make this all sound like a public service announcement, but here ‘goes. I’m that little boy. I’m Crandon. Except for where my name is Caleb and I’m a lot older. That car wreck happened over ten years ago, and I still think about it on a constant basis. It isn’t because of what happened, so much as because of what could have happened. Obviously God’s will wasn’t that any of us would die that day. But the paramedics and firemen all agreed that had the truck hit us from the side, not much further from where it had hit us, both my brother and my father would have been killed. The wreck might have left me to grow up without two of my closest friends. And without them, I think it’d be perfectly safe to say I’d be a very different person. 

I turned twenty-one a couple months ago, and here in the US that’s kind of a big deal because that’s when it’s legal for someone to go out and get smashing drunk. It isn’t legal to get in a car and drive in that state, but it didn’t stop that guy in the truck who hit my dad and brother and me on our way home from church one night. I had to work on my birthday, and every time someone asked me if I was going to party it up, alluding to me getting drunk, I just wanted to punch their face in.

It wasn’t their fault, they didn’t understand. But because of that childhood experience I have a very personal aversion to drunkenness, and it would aggravate me when they would suggest that I would have any part in such a stupor.

I’ve been twenty-one since February, and in that short stint of time I’ve had enough liquor to know I really like it. I’m not so stodgy so as not to joke about drunkenness in the moment. But when it comes down to reality and I’m expected to be serious, no, I don’t do drunk. I just don’t have any interest in becoming a raging idiot and losing what little control I do have of myself.

Yes, I do very much enjoy a bit of Johnnie Walker: Black Label on the rocks.

No I do not drink it with the intention to get slobbering drunk.

It’s a balance. Like in everything, moderation should be key.

I guess I can count myself lucky. Lucky that I had such an experience to give me the mindset I have on the matter. And common sense to interpret the experience in the way that I do, so that I choose to live in moderation instead of lacking control. Others aren’t so lucky. And that’s why I’m here I guess. I share my experience, to write about it and dramatize it so that others realize the seriousness and need of self-restraint.

Lives are at stake. 

Make the right choice.

Drink Responsibly.

… Okay, now I just sound like a public service announcement.

Of candy and flowers and heart-shapes

Listen, it’s not that I don’t like the idea of Valentine’s Day. I love the idea of a day where couples can simply enjoy one another and bask in their love for each other, I really do. But that isn’t what Valentine’s Day is about anymore. Like all holidays, corporations take a hold of it by the hair and steer it in whatever direction they choose. And what direction is that, you ask?

Corporations are run by money. People who think they run corporations are deluded. They don’t run corporations, they are run by money as well. The corporation cannot survive without three square meals a day. Those meals are money, money, and money.

But how does a harmless corporation go about getting this money to appease its raucous appetite? Through trickery? Through shrewd bargaining? I believe they do it through strong-arming people against their will, and this is why: people are concerned with their image. A person’s image is everything. It’s what other people see, and it matters to the image’s owner. So how does a person’s image correlate with Valentine’s Day? I’m getting there.

Modern day men are expected to buy their significant other some sort of gift to present to her on Valentine’s Day. This is necessary because men are complete buffoons and putting up with us is unbearable. To appease our girlfriends, wives, fiancés, or whatever, we are expected to buy them some frilly gift, which for a paltry fifty dollars, can be acquired via corporations. Candy? Flowers? Love notes written for those of a non-artistic breed?  All of these are resources which corporations are more than willing to provide us with, so long as we have the money to pay for these things.

Overly dramatic? Possibly. I embellish. I do do that sometimes. But there’s more truth to what I preach than you might think. Hear me out, because this is the part where I get all hot under the collar. These corporations need our money to thrive, so they imbed it in society that if a man does NOT buy a gift from these corporations, he is a lowlife scumbag who isn’t worth the time of day. He is the stupidest of idiots, and the slobiest of slobs. He isn’t worthy of the woman he claims to love.

And all because he merely didn’t fuel a corporation’s greed.

He didn’t say he didn’t love that woman. He didn’t claim his feelings were not the same as his words. But his actions said enough. He didn’t buy cheap (Read: stupid expensive) chocolate or a dozen roses or a sappy card of pink, white, or red… so he doesn’t really LOVE anyone. That selfish fish-head! What a complete, utter, waste of humanity. Thankfully he’ll live out his days in single… ness… and not break anyone’s frail, little heart.

A cheesy holiday, which isn’t even important enough to close stores or keep people home from work, has become a cash COW for corporations willing to milk it until it goes dry. And who suffers from that corporate greed? Merely the guys who are heels for not bending to the whims of said corporations.

What is the point of Valentine’s Day? To show the one you love, how you feel. Sure, it’s corny, and mushy, and lovey-dovey, but it’s cute and sweet. It’s a heart-filled bit of fun and merely meant to bring people closer, especially in a society where our lives never slow and we’re going so many places at once.

But the point, has been missed. The reason has been altered and twisted like only money-hungry corporations can twist things.

So… what’s the point to all this?

Valentine’s Day might have a special meaning to some couples, and I don’t want to be insensitive to that. But, if you want to show someone you care about them, show them they’re worth more than fifty dollars and corporation supplied junk you pick up on your way home from work. Take some time to make something personal, or if you don’t believe yourself creative; buy a gift which has more meaning than chocolate and flowers. Something that has a special meaning to both of you.

But most of all… don’t use Valentine’s Day as an excuse to show your special someone you love them. If Valentine’s Day is the only day you show your significant other how you feel, then maybe you deserve the contempt you might receive by not catering to the corporate greed feeding off the holiday.

If you’re going to celebrate Valentine’s Day, don’t do so because of obligation. Do it because you actually care and you want to show that in a physical way. There’s nothing worse than caving in to corporate greed, and allowing the corporate fat-cats to cash in on your supposed love.

I guess that’s my main beef with the holiday. Sure, I know corporations are going to use whatever means they can to procure the money they need to survive… but is it entirely necessary for them to use people’s love of all things? Seriously!? It sickens me.

So. With Valentine’s Day approaching. You might be planning to buy that certain someone a heart-shaped box of chocolates and a heart-shaped card and a bouquet of red roses, but I would encourage you to dare to do something unexpected, and veer from mainstream society by doing something more creative and specific.

Use Valentine’s Day to supplement the rest of the wonderfully sweet and charming ways you show your girl how much you love her, instead of making it the only day you do that kind of stuff. It should really just be ANOTHER opportunity to display your feelings, instead of the ONE opportunity. You have a whopping 365 days. Don’t make Valentine’s the only one.

No. I am not a cantankerous single man, bitter at a holiday aimed at something I’m not included in. I’m a cantankerous single man who’s bitter at society and how willingly it feeds corporate greed. I refuse to buy a girl flowers because someone else thinks I should. The only reason I’d ever buy her flowers, is so she knows how much she means to me.

(Unrelated… but not entirely: flowers wilt and die in a very short time. Chocolate is eaten quickly. Cards lose their meaning after a while. And yet, these are the ways we choose to show our love?)

Disclaimer: I don’t hate chocolate, flowers, or mass-produced greeting cards. And there is an element of care that goes into giving such gifts. But they are no substitute for true affection. In the end, it's the thought that counts, right?

One October Evening

Three young men strode into a coffee shop one late afternoon in October. That is, if one would call it late afternoon. It was rather that time of day right after most working people have returned home and just finished their suppers. I suppose that remains a vague statement…

… It was nearly seven P.M. …

And I suppose that would be early evening, not late afternoon at all. Really the time of day, or rather time of night, is of no consequence. The time does not dictate these young men’s actions any more than what time of year it was. But as coincidence would have it, it was an October evening, and for that I am thankful. Really for no other reason than because is my favorite month. I like the idea of it being an October evening in which these gentlemen were strolling. Not merely strolling for the sake of strolling, but strolling with a purpose and destination. Fortunately for my sake, it really was an October evening. Not a late afternoon like I said previously, but rather, an October evening.

These three gentleman could not have been more different from one another. As the trio approached the coffee shop and their faces were illuminated by the welcoming lights within, one of them stood aside, opened the door, and held it wide for the other two to enter before doing so himself. When they’d all regrouped within the shop, they turned once again to their conversation from outside, this time with their features and expressions easily seen in the warm lighting of the establishment.

“If you give me your order, Cillian, I can grab your drink while you pick us a nice table,” the shortest in the group said. He was thin, dark haired, and shared that look all Oriental people share. He pulled his wallet from his jacket’s breast pocket and flipped through the bills which were neatly folded therein.

Cillian smiled. His face was thin but recognizably handsome and he wore a pair of small, but thick rimmed glasses which gave him the appearance of scholarly wisdom. His hair was messy, but somehow with intent. “Thank you, Jules,” he said, addressing the other. “I’ll have a peppermint mocha, with soy milk, please. And I’ll leave the size to your generosity.”

Jules nodded. He said: “Grab a couple extra chairs for the others if you can. Did they mention if they’d be here at the usual time?”

“Yeah, they’ll be through with work around seven and should be here promptly thereafter,” Cillian replied. Then he turned and began weaving his way through the coffee shop to find a table to claim for their company.

Jules ordered their coffees and waited for the third member of their group to purchase his as well, before the two of them followed after their companion. Cillian had chosen a table in the back of the shop. In truth, it was a booth, not a mere table, and so he hadn’t had to trouble with collecting extra chairs at all. Most would probably assume he’d just grabbed the first vacant place he’d come across, but Cillian is a very clever fellow, and one who often hates to make a scene. He would have thought through the ridiculousness of dragging chairs to a table they were not meant to be and the incredulous looks he would have received in the process. Quite obviously there had been a number of reasons he’d chosen the booth. None of which the other two companions were privy to, but that hardly mattered, as they more than likely didn’t really care.

“Your coffee, Sir,” Jules announced as he placed the steaming mug before Cillian. The latter gentleman blew the steam from the mug carefully before thanking Jules again for the drink. The other two claimed their places at the booth by sliding into them and making themselves comfortable. “I love the foam here, probably the best latte foam around,” the third member of their group stated. He tucked a long strand of blonde hair behind his ear and lifted the mug to his lips. He took a long slurp before returning the beverage safely to the table’s surface. His face was less thin than those of the other two, but no less handsome. It was framed by his long blonde hair which hung past his ears, but not quite to his shoulders. He grinned as Jules flicked the side of his own mug causing the surface of his drink to quiver and ripple.

“Billy,” Jules responded, “foam is foam. I cannot imagine the foam differs too much from shop to shop. But then I haven’t ever given it much thought. I’ll have to pay closer attention next time I order a latte, wherever I stop.”

These three were students and scholars, and they spoke together, discussing their time at their respective schools. Cillian, a poet and aspiring author; Jules, a business investor who planned to make his fortune through stock market wizardry; and Billy, a scientist and biologist. It was here, in this booth, on this October evening, under the dull and flickering overhead light that the three of them sat, speaking of classes and professors and studying. And it was here that two ragged working men found them. Despite their vast difference in outward appearance, the three already seated at the booth rose to shake hands, pat backs, and share in brotherly embraces as they all greeted one another.

The two young men who joined them were of the same relative age as the rest in the group. One was tall, the other short. The taller one was red-headed and gaunt and pale. He wore small, thin-rimmed glasses on his thin and boyish face. The shorter was dark-haired, and hairy indeed. His long brown hair curled past his shoulders and his face was unshaved. He was the most robust of the group and the noisiest, laughing raucously whenever a joke was made. Both of the newcomers were dressed shoddily in work clothes which were worn and dirty.

“When you’ve finished making a scene and laughing that hideous laugh, Ewan, feel free to take a seat,” the taller of the duo stated facetiously. “I’d rather not stand all night, and I’m waiting on you.”

“Well, excuse me, princess!” Ewan retorted jokingly. “Please, excuse my poor manners. The lady should always take her seat before the gentleman. After you, Basil.” He smiled sweetly and gestured for the tall fellow to sit in the booth. Basil shook his head and made a sour expression before muttering to himself and sliding into the booth. Ewan took his seat as well.

These fellows sat in their booth for a couple hours, talking and laughing. They pulled notebooks from bags they’d brought with them and shared their writing and drawings, their work stories and life struggles. Everyone was entitled to his opinion, and all listened until he was through. They encouraged one another. They laughed at the foolishness of each other. They discussed topics logically and freely. Five men of different heights, different lifestyles, different hopes and different dreams; bonded by their friendship, their creativity, and their mutual respect for free thought and strong opinion.

Eventually, Ewan pulled back his jacket sleeve to peer at his wrist watch. As if it was a signal, the rest did the same. “Well, it’s about time for me to head home,” Ewan announced to the group. He looked sadly into his coffee mug, the contents long drained.

“I have an exam tomorrow,” Billy said, “I should get home too.”

The rest agreed and each rose from the booth, leaving his coffee mug on the table to be cleared by the shop staff. “Well, I shall see you gents again next week.” Cillian said, pulling his jacket on as he stepped towards the door.

“Next week,” Jules agreed and he held the door open for his companions to file through.

Outside in the October evening air, the friends exchanged handshakes and hugs, except for Ewan, who ignored all attempts to shake his hand and instead wrapped each of his friends in a tight embrace. A few final words were spoken among the young men and then they each finally left to go each his own way.

October evenings where meant to be spent like that, I believe. With friends, with coffee, all armed with open minds and creative thoughts. But then again… I like that sort of thing.

And October has always been my favorite month.

Among many passions lies reading

Well, at the end of 2013 I decided instead of New Year’s resolutions, I’d make a list of books I wanted to read throughout the year, and see how many I could check off by the end of the year. It turned out to be a really dumb idea, because I bought a ton of books in 2014 and a lot of them I wanted to start the minute I got them home. I didn’t get very far in my book reading list…

But I did read a heck of a lot last year. I experienced literature from a number of different authors and a number of different genres as well as a number of different decades. Some of my favorites were The October Country by Ray Bradbury, Leave it to Psmith by P.G. Wodehouse, Inkheart by Cornelia Funke, All Quite on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque, and Terry Pratchett’s The Wee Free Men.

I’m excited, because my bookshelf is bursting with volumes I cannot wait to crack open. And I mean literally bursting! I’ve run out of room. I have several books out on loan still, but when they get returned I honestly don’t know where I’ll put them… because I don’t have any more space. I didn’t have any more space months ago, but that just doesn’t stop me from buying more books. It’s a disease I have. It’s not always my fault, though! Sometimes people give me books! And, obviously, I adore them for it.

It's a treat for me to get lost in literature and an adventure I look forward to each day, right alongside actually writing things for myself. I’m off to a good start with my reading for this year. And I’m sure there’ll be a number of books I haven’t accounted for that will show up out of nowhere which I will read with pleasure. I’m looking forward to the reading I do in the coming year… because I already have some awesome titles lined up.

Another New Year

Sorry - I don't mean to cough all over your face. Seriously, I don't. But jeez, there's a lot of dust on this blog. I mean look at it! Is that... six inches? Whoo... I'll try not to inhale like that again until I've swept a bit!

Jokes aside, this place is unkempt. I'll just be honest with myself. I didn't blog all this month! And now the day is almost up, the month is almost up, and gosh-darnit, the year is almost up to boot! So I'm squeezing one last post in before I can kiss 2014 goodbye forever.

I like 2014 though. It holds a lot of great memories. It holds a lot of new experiences. And it's almost gone.

But I'm not entirely sorry to see this year end and a new one begin. Because as much fun as 2014 was... you know, it was a freaking disappointment too. Dreams, all but snuffed out. Hopes smashed like the head of a porcelain doll meeting a cement floor. My heart squeezed and pressed like a lemon being removed of it's tart life-blood. And me; left to piece together what just happened and try to understand what I'm supposed to do. I like to stand and fight. I like the thrill of facing something that's bigger and better then me, because there's a chance I'll walk away the victor. But more than once this year I just wanted to run far, far away and hide. And I would have, if it would have made all the hurt and all the confusion finally stop. Car insurance got more expensive this year. Mistakes happened. Misunderstandings unfolded. Heartbreak swooped in. But even with all the smelly crap I had to deal with...

Good things happened this year too.

Reawakening dawned. New discoveries were found. I had some fantastic adventures. And I grew closer with the people I call my friends. A lot closer. I realized how important they are to me, and what exactly I'm willing to do for them. And most importantly, how God uses them in my life.

Would I trade the yucky experiences I had this year? Yes. Without a second thought. But if it meant I had to give up the good experiences too? No bloody way that'd happen. I'll take the bad with the good if it has to be that way.

I'm excited for 2015. And even if I feel a little nostalgic for 2014, I'm glad a new year is dawning. I'm looking forward to the experiences that are awaiting me in the folds of the new year.

Happy New Year, everyone!

A lament for libraries

Is my library a special one as far as libraries are concerned? In a couple of my unfinished works bits and pieces have taken place in libraries. But the libraries in my written works are never anything like the library I frequent. The libraries in my stories are large buildings with rows upon rows of bookshelves which reach nearly higher than an average person’s arms. These libraries are usually full, but not crowded. They are frequented by older citizens looking for a good read to pass the time, students searching for some piece to use as reference material for their next big essay, and individuals who just want to immerse themselves in the writings of others. Sometimes my stories have people working at the library, plugging in a laptop to pound away code or write an article.

But do you know what the libraries in my stories never have? Crying babies running and stomping across the floor, causing such a ruckus that no matter where you hide or how many books you bury yourself in, the noise cannot possibly be blocked out. There aren’t smelly, bedraggled, supposedly homeless people begging for money at the front entrance. And there aren’t thoughtless individuals talking loudly amongst themselves or, please, please, please, heaven forbid – having their cell phones blasting their ringtones, and answering the freaking things right then and there, before continuing the conversation where they sit instead of getting up and politely leaving the premises.

None of that happens in my stories, but that happens all the time at my charming, little library. Does any of that happen at your library? For your sake I hope not. The library isn’t a playground, or a daycare, or a nightclub. It’s a place where people who require a little peace and quiet can search for information, read a good book, and simply enjoy the written word.

My library is nothing but a free-for-all, it would seem. And what ever happened to using your “Library Voice”? Yes, the books, and movies, and CD’s have titles on them. And yes you are meant to read them. Just not out loud. Not every, single, bloody title on the shelf, one after the other, out bloody loud. SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT YOUR MOUTH RIGHT UP BEFORE I STUFF IT FULL OF BOOKS AND LEAVE YOU TO CHOKE ON POE AND BRADBURY, AND PRATCHETT, AND REMARQUE, AND GINSBERG, AND VONNEGUT, AND DUMAS, AND DICKENS, AND STEVENSON, AND BLOODY BLOODY SHAKESPEARE, SO THAT YOUR LAST BREATHS ARE CAUGHT AND SNUFFED BY THE PAGES OF THOSE BOOKS, YOU STINKING AND UNCULTURED MORON!

Ugh.

My library can’t be the only one, can it? It kind of bothers me.