library adventures

Life is becoming increasingly hectic, which requires me to up my intentionality in regard to blogging. I cannot simply allow it to happen when it will. I schedule it, place it upon my list, and log onto public library computers fo an hour with the express purpose of hammering something out. In case you need an extra hint, the latter item on that list of three happens to be the activity of which I am currently partaking. Here is the issue, however: I generally prefer themed, semi-focused writing, so I cannot simply slap all my thoughts down. So I'm selecting the topics that will produce the most volume of writing first, then moving onto the others second. Coming soon: experiences at Looptopia, thoughts on Chicago, an exposition on my personal development, and maybe even some thoughts on love, a topic upon which I am sorely underqualified to discuss. But discuss it, I shall. For today though, I will only venture to extend my commiserations on my ever-deepening relationships with libraries. My iPod is playing Enya, I am focused, I am coffeed, and I am ready to go.

My facebook status currently reads: "Elizabeth Tatum now owns three library cards...absolute perfection." I thought of typing "absolut perfection" instead to draw parallels between the drowsy loveliness of drinking some form of alcohol and the pleasure of libraries. But that is an unnecessary segue. And no, to answer your burning question, my status does not lie. I have a card for a library in Pennsylvania, one for a great branch in a northern suburb of Chicago, and, as of today, a white and green beauty which allows me access into any library in the Chicago Public system. The only response to this new development is a slow closing of the eyes and a contented sigh. How am I, Elizabeth Tatum, so fortunate as to be bestowed with the freedom to explore, rifle through, watch, and check out literally millions of media items of all kind? This, I cannot answer.
A friend of mine, whose penchant to party is about a 9 of 10 on a penchant to party scale, wrote to me, informing me that owning three library cards screams, "Mz. Frizzle is my role model." I wrote back reminding him of the fact that, only two weeks earlier, I was dancing in a club to hip-hop music after consuming one, and only one, alcoholic beverage. I didn't even need the drink. I can break it down any ol' time I want. I responded to his wall post with the following comment: "I am no Mz. Frizzle. And if I am, I am the freaky Mz. Frizzle." I only relate this interaction to you to quell the fears that are no doubt welling up in you over my frighteningly close resemblance to all librarian stereotypes. Whatever.
I discovered the library in which I am now enjoying part-time residence because of a stop on the train. Yes, that's right. There is a stop on the CTA called "Library." Sometime I will get a picture next to it. This is not a front, people. I really like libraries. It is an absolutely impeccable boyfriend, or even friend, substitute. It is impossible to feel alone while at a library. Not only are there other patrons about you at all times, but there are spades of words, and pages, and volumes that communicate human wisdom, and stupidity, through the ages. Ah. But I continue to digress instead of actually communicating what I intended to:
About a week ago I alighted from the train at said Library stop, and made my way into the Harold Washington Library at State and VanBuren. It may not be architecturally astounding on the inside, but my mind and mouth were hushed by its nine levels, unending hallways of marble, and floors dedicated to literature and the performing arts. I didn't ask for any map. That is something the old Elizabeth would have done. Now I wander at random, not caring for time, or structure, or getting lost. After I discovered floor 7, home to literature and literary studies, I was about to descend to the ground floor, when I noticed that the 8th floor featured visual and performing arts. I found that not only do they have every piece of sheet music imaginable, they also house piano practice rooms and a chamber music room. The former are open at all times, and the latter has to be reserved with four people 24 hours in advance. I went into room B with an upright Baldwin and spent a good hour and a half singing along to my iPod, favorite Broadway ballads, and rediscovering some of my favorite works: a Waltz by Chopin, an Invention by Bach, a modern piece with an impressive sounding (but easy) cadenza, and a Sonata by Beethoven. As I walked out of the room, I was so happy I could hardly stand it. Does this ever happen to anyone else? The feeling that you should go run a marathon, without doing any training whatsoever? Perhaps I need to take some medication to calm down.
Actually though, I was sobered up by a few things on the way out of the library. While walking through one of the long marble hallways, I came across a clear bottle lying on the floor. I picked it up and saw the name of a famous vodka maker. If I was a lush, I would have opened it up to extract the last 0.5 ounces of liquid from it. As my general drink to time ratio is about a pint of beer to two hours, I didn't feel comfortable taking a swig, all hygenic objections aside. Also, as I emerged from the bathroom on the 8th floor, I saw a sign which made me laugh, and just as suddenly, feel rather strange as to the original cause of it. It said something like this: "Occupancy is limited to one person per stall. Violators will be fined." I get excited about libraries, but not that kind of excitement, people. Apparently having sex in library bathrooms is on the rise. Those of us who see it as abhorrent may be part of a shrinking minority.
But my stories are not even finished. Further proof of the library's status as a relational hotspot revealed itself as I sat by myself at a four person table, continuing my slow and painful reading of Shake Hands with the Devil, an account of the Rwandan genocide. Correct me if I'm wrong, but typically people enjoy being alone at libraries. Sitting by yourself at a table implies the desire to be undisturbed. However, some poor guy was blind to such obvious social cues and tried to pick me up. That's right. No guy has ever offered me his number, or asked for mine, until one day at the library. How depressing. He came over to me, slid me a piece of paper and said, "Here. I'd like to give you my number." I hardly looked up from my book and mumbled, "Um. OK." He curved his body down to look at my face and said, "What's your name?" I told him, again avoiding eye contact. He said, "Well, it doesn't really seem like you're interested." My response: "No, not really. Thanks anyway." To give the kid credit though, he had guts, and he even spoke with a library appropriate voice. Too bad. Too sad. I felt bad about my response to him about thirty seconds later and wanted to run after him to make reparations. But he would have taken any further interaction as positive feedback, which I did not want. I should have at least lauded Suitor x for being gutsy though. Oh well.
Now, this doesn't mean that I'm opposed to meeting boys in a library. I would probably just want to orchestrate it differently.
These library adventures may continue, I think. Currently, while writing this blog, I am fending off a crazy who has been following me around. So far this week, I have gotten attention from two drunk, mid-thirtyish construction workers on the train, and a crazy man at the library. Save me from myself. Maybe it has to do with the damn library. Maybe it has to do with a new phenomenon that involves scary men pursuing weird women who like hanging out at libraries. Well, if it does, I guess I'll just have to start carrying mace or beef up my arms or learn really intimidating sounding expletives...because I'm not giving it up.