Work and the Diminishing Priorities

One of my first encounters this morning was with a man whose eyes were bloody red, the pupils a milky black. His skin and hair were the same hue as his white thick cotton tee. His faded black Fubu pants were held somewhere indiscriminate of what the actual essence for which pants are traditionally worn. Barely was there time to turn on the public catalogue monitor before my perceptions of the morning were jostled. I was chanting internally that by 11 I would be able to sit down with a cup of coffee from the cafe and get to the busy work my job revolves around, but it was already too late. Everything became clear that my morning was not to be a good one, not until the people with issues had their complaints resolved.

And this gentleman with the worrisome eyes, eventually sitting with his buddies from one of the local homeless shelters, he was young, seemingly already influenced by one thing or another, approached me before I could view the catastrophe that the book-drop always is, before I could check on the holds list, putting his face close to mine as I leaned over the public pc to say “hello” interrogatively. He stared at me coolly, waiting for a flinch or a remark, but I could only say “hi” back and turned away without further inquiry. Walking towards the corner of seats he watched me with a maniac fluttering of one of his black eyes. I brushed it off, but couldn’t help wondering what else might come when I was at the front desk.

Before my supervisor and I, who were manning the front desk together, had a moment to collect ourselves for the shift, we heard shouting close by. A second young man was yelling obscenities at an older raggedy man whose words were softer, but growing urgent. Soon the older man approached the front desk, in a dingy flannel shirt with a bulging turquoise backpack in his hands and a tragic, watery look in his eyes. A young, possessive man had accused the elder of stealing his backpack. Given the younger man’s hostile tone and immediate usage of inflammatory language, which, no doubt, was perused to convince the sad elder to hand over the rather sodden pack.  Regardless of the foul language and depth of rage, most of which I fail to repeat here due to its racial slurrage, the old man refused to give up the backpack.  Secretly, I applauded the old gent because he maintained a quiet calm that outweighed his apparent fright.

Neither myself nor my supervisor needed to dial for security, as our omnipresent guard was already dashing down the stairs to dissolve the problem, as he has done reliably throughout his tenure. The young man was running on more than adrenaline, we found, so the police were summoned. Being that our facility is located directly next to the police headquarters, the event would diffuse in only moments. Things like this happen all the time at public libraries, perhaps even in the smallest of provinces, so I moved about my morning duties while the police investigated the minor details of the younger and the elder. Upon the police arriving, however, the younger man began to quibble in a shy tone, remarking that he simply asked the elder whose pack he carried and where he found it.  My eyes rolled involuntarily.  The police were not amused and asked the younger to perhaps take a walk with them.

And, surprisingly, I finished my work with little more interruption, though it did look like a possible romper.

Dipsy Doodle of Life

Early this morning Phoebe, the cat who lives with me, sat perfectly still in a chair, her back to me, watching, where a bird was trapped in between a partially opened window (between the upper pane and the lower pane that was lifted, where the two overlapped). He was a little thing, probably one of the babies that’ve been learning to use their wings above our balcony, so I knew he could get out of the narrow opening (how did he get there, anyway?), but he was stubborn to any rescue support. My first premonition was to get Phoebe in a different room, where she wouldn’t take a swipe at the earliest opportunity. She is, after all, a beast unto her domain.

It took Jonathan’s and my own dedicated focus to get the bird out alive (we could already see little blots of blood marking where he had tried to take flight and hit the glass). Finally, after much trial and error, with two fly swatters to hoist him, he made it out of the window’s crevice, flying to the back of the apartment  (he likely thought we would prefer to eat him, getting away from our grubby mitts ASAP) where we heard a thud as he hit another window. He was still alive (the feminist in me hates assuming that a mysterious “it” was a “he,” but maybe I’m right to assume), and after a little more good work he was summoned to the balcony perched on a newspaper where he disappeared in moments.

I was prepared the whole time to find a box and bury the poor creature in our backyard. I thought he was going to die, if not in our window, as soon as we got him out. He was resistant to our help, avoiding the various objects we offered him so he could jump out safely. At one point his tail looked broken as he smushed himself into one corner, head crowded down, body surrounding it. At another moment his head was stuck between some wood, and he seemed as though he was giving up, he laid there, blinking his eyes.

Anyway, I hope he’s safe somewhere now. And if he died, I hope he had his friends and family nearby to make it easier (instead of two giants talking with bulky words).

It reminded me of a time when a previous boss of mine (one I worked for in Missoula, Montana), tried rescuing a bird. This bird came in through the store’s opened door, attempting an exit through a large glass window, which certainly must have rattled his brain as he fell to the floor instantly, never to perk back to health. My boss was particularly shaken by life’s traumas that afternoon, as a little box containing the corpse of this bird gloomily awaited its burial.

Yesterday I took an unexpected journey in a borrowed car, admiring a bend in the narrow lanes on the outskirts of town, where ancient limestone blocks concocted curvy walls and trees nearly swept the road with sagging, lush branches. Just as I was dipping into the slight descent, a chipmunk that I initially mistook as perhaps a leaf was scaddling across the two lanes. I was almost too close when I shoved my foot in the brake. Upon realizing the near-death of a tiny creature, my heart leapt, blood spinning vibrations of fear into my brain. It doesn’t get any easier, no matter the size or toll of death.

Personal, Though it Seems, An Update

I wrote sometime ago that I was moving to Louisville in a few short months. Thoughts, sleepless nights, personal ambitions and hopeful endeavors have sustained to a new reality, thus a new future. After hesitation, I’ve decided to put off moving to any other city for a few more years as I enter graduate school here in Lexington, Kentucky. So, except for weekend jaunts to Louisville, Ky, where one might find me with fingers curled around a camera in, say, Butchertown or Germantown or at some coffee dive, I will be found, no more, no less, right put as I am now, except with more books, perhaps a little anxiety, and more to relay about cataloging.

As for blogging, maybe I’ll shape up and ship out, or maybe I’ll get back in this sphere that I’ve never really belonged to: the internet. Sometimes it appears raggedly demoralizing to history and nature as I perceive it, but the good and the bad meet in some common gray area, usually, coalescing a compromise. Meanwhile, I’ll read between the lines.

Kudzu Third Degree

I burned several blobs of blister on the soft underside of my right arm last evening. Never mind how it happened: I was drunk and blind in a forest fire, no, not this time, I walked uphill backwards bumping into lit kerosene, no, a manipulative, handsome man poured hot oil on me, actually, I was saving a family of eight from a burning house (the parents started the fire because they thought Charles Manson’s devil-worshipping ways were getting the best of their children, and they read in an anti-witchcraft manual they’d bought in Topeka that anything burnt to ash was properly awash of the devil).

What’s brilliant about the burn is that it’s directly atop a mysterious allergic rash that was not only swollen, but pickled with rosebush thorns. And rather than throw up all over the library, and risk creeping out patrons who just wanted to check out their books with my dense fever and thusly sweaty face and hands, I sent myself home to allow the uninvited demons out for an evening. I doubt that upon falling asleep I carbonized into some bloodied she-dog with the taste for human skin, but whatever was poisoning me, did so swiftly and I could do nothing but sleep for almost 24 hours.

Besides the burn, I was dutifully weeding my landlord’s property a few days prior, as I bleakly swore I would, and encountered a few ghastly growths that were not only unwelcome, they ignored this lack of invitation stealthily, with roots I’ll have to maneuver out with tools, some as thick and brawny as my own little arms. Mind you, this is but a villa on the coast compared to the oceans of landscaping others seep their knees into, but one little villa that is transforming into a jungle. These long, vine-like weeds creep into the bushes and flowers, not unlike kudzu, except, of course, for kudzu retains an obvious design to uncontrollably (it is after all predatorless beyond cranky Southeastern gardeners and farmers) take over the United States. This species only wanted me to sacrifice my arm, this kudzu-look-alike. Ruthlessly, I tore it out of the ground, not to know until a little later the gross gagging factor of no relent.

All things considered, I’ve been in worse shape, but I’ll save my “pain” and “trauma” memories for the Scientologists who will be interviewing me later. According to experts, kudzu grows so dramatically fast that during the summertime you can watch it make one 360 degree turn upward towards its new destination within a half-hour. That’s one beast to conquer, I can’t imagine what the damage might be if it had brain tissue.

Promoting Shamelessly

Catch me on the local airwaves at WRFL 88.1 FM. Fridays 6 – 9 a.m. You can also access the live stream at http://www.wrfl.fm/ if you’re not from these parts. This morning was my first show of the summer. Mayhem (A.M.) Tracks.

Editorial Note

The previous post about Ms. Amelia Earhart was not yet ready for public viewing, but was mistakenly posted anyhow. It will return to the blog as soon as it is complete. Apologies for the error, and happy reading!

kitchenless?

Sadly, the podcast has not taken off as I had initially hoped it would. I have found more distractions in the outer world, work and exercise, cooking and cleaning, reading monstrous piles of literature, pretending to study for the GRE and studying landmarks and sites for my, yes, anticipated and recently decided move to Louisville, Kentucky. So long, Lexington, population flubberish, attitudes of aristocratic steel, pitted dead end bachelor’s degree with nay a scurry of water to ride this one out. So, we’re gone, just like that, it’s enough being from this sometimes wearisome and dreadful city, seeing the same old blocks repeatedly, with fewer and fewer refuges, escalating scandal, heartbreak, not a tear of mercy. There’s a drought here, and it starts internally, I’m waiting for the pulse, but if I hold my breath, this might never show me its livelihood. I must exit before I see no way to abandon it, before I forget what moving around feels like, what discovery requires, what kind of mentally challenging escapades adapt a person to his/her strange comrads and streets. I see no way around this city except outward. So, off we go.