My degree arrived in the mail while I was away in NYC.
Monday, July 6, 2015
Wednesday, May 6, 2015
Dear Homer
Dear Homer,
The library in my town is terrible. Don’t get me wrong - they try. The staff is curteous. The books and spaces are well maintained. There’s a wide selection of DVDs and other non-book materials as well as free access to a robust internet connection. Additionally, the library maintains a presence on the web through which patrons have access to ebooks and other electronic materials.
The space smells old, but it’s a familiar kind of old smell, the stink of yellowing paper and deteriorating binding glue mixed with the omnidirectional oil-ink smell of flaking lacquer, the low perfume aging wood, and the invisible stone dust of crumbling plaster. I know these smells. I like these smells. They are, to me, fingerprints and signatures that make a place essentially “library”.
Oh. And all of this - the friendly staff, the bountiful resources, the familiar smells - is located within a mile of my home - walking distance, even for lazy people.
Considering all of that, “terrible” seems an unfair judgement, a childish silver-spoon tantrum instigated by an overabundance of perfection. And, it’s true, the space could be entirely perfect and wonderful, would, in fact be nearly ideal.
...if it weren’t for the people. The Other People
...if it weren’t for the people. The Other People
Other People are here, gabbing loudly on cell phones about probation and day care and “GOOD MORNING MRS. LAWRENCE, HOW ARE YOU TODAY?”. They hack and cough and wipe their hands on the furniture, snorting back mucus in long mumbling grunts, swallowing and gasping like marooned fish.
Other People sit alone at tables for four, their unzipped pocketbooks spilling contents like vomiting dogs, chatting loudly with other Other People at other tables, squawking like stupid birds. Other People fill the air with gaudy jarring ringtones because they cannot be bothered to silence their cell phones. They MUST answer every call and MUST have the conversation right there and in their LOUDEST possible voice.
Other People need help with the internet. Other People don’t know how to check their email. Other People don’t know how to sign out books or where the bathroom is or how much they owe in late fees or if the library carries Cars 3 on BlueRay (and no? And when will it come out? And now we must discuss at great length whether or not the movie will be made and what it might be about if it is to be made) and “I AM MOST LIKELY GOING TO CHANGE THE FORMATTING TO SOMETHING MORE AESTHETICALLY PLEASING BUT I DON’T KNOW HOW TO DO BLOCK QUOTES! CAN YOU HELP ME PLEASE?”
Other People are ruining everything. They cause the polite staff to speak loudly because Other People are speaking loudly.
Other People don’t return anything on time. Ever. And they certainly can’t be bothered with late fees. Why should they pay when they can just complain? Loudly! ALWAYS LOUDLY!
Other People break the keyboards and monitors in the library and don’t tell anyone until their are no keyboards or monitors that work quite right. And then, of course, Other People complain. And blame Other People.
Other People stand just outside the library doors smoking, arguing that the prominent ‘No Smoking’ sign refers to cigarettes and not cigars.
Other People are terrible drivers and lousy parkers. they clog the parking lot with idiot machines thrown about like children’s toys.
Other People treat the library like their own personal lounge, gabbing and chatting and stinking and stealing and breaking and laughing and picking their teeth with their hands while reading and wiping the sweat from their brows with the books and digging into their underwear and typing and digging into their armpits and typing and digging into their noses and typing and coughing into their hands and typing and smearing filth on the monitor and typing and typing and typing and typing and typing.
And never leaving. Other People NEVER leave. They stand out like idiot tattoo, obvious and wrong and permanent. Other People are forever.
My library is terrible, Homer, because my library is Other People. My library isn’t you.
To Other People, the library is an all-purpose generic space; a daycare center, a meeting house, a telephone booth, a public restroom, an internet cafe. They don’t know you like I do, Homer. And they don’t care.
I wish they knew you, Homer. I wish Other People could sample your cool indoors and gently humming air exchangers, the pristine carpets and carefully adjusting lighting, the polished desktops and modern computers - each one of them in perfect working order.
And your quietness, Homer. Oh how I wish Other People could understand the gift of near perfect silence, how much work can be done, how much learning can be done, how sweet and peaceful and thoughtful and inspiring it can be. And, even if in experiencing the beauty of silence they learn that it isn’t for them, I wish, Homer, that Other People would learn to respect other people’s love and need for quiet.
I will miss you, Homer. I will miss the hundreds of hours of writing and study and resting and reading and scheduling and sorting. I will miss your inspiring halls. I will miss your timeless lighting and inviting spaces, and, mostly, your infinite delicate silence.
I hope one day to meet someone else like you, Homer, to find a space in which I am allowed and encouraged to be my best self, to stretch out in all directions or dive infinitely inward and discover new things. I hope I am able to find the the perfect glittering silence of pre-creation to which you first introduced me. I hope I am able to adjust to this new place, to find a way of fitting in here without feeling like a misplaced part.
One day, we may be lucky enough to have occasion to adventure together once again. But, most likely, this is goodbye for good. And saying goodbye makes me sad, and grateful, and proud, and lonely all at once.
You were kind to me in all the best and most important ways, Homer, and I’ll never forget you.
Sincerely,
Drew Brathwaite
P.S. There are armies of penises and vaginas on the walls in the first and fourth floor restrooms. You probably want to take care of that.
Best,
D
You were kind to me in all the best and most important ways, Homer, and I’ll never forget you.
Sincerely,
Drew Brathwaite
P.S. There are armies of penises and vaginas on the walls in the first and fourth floor restrooms. You probably want to take care of that.
Best,
D
- May 6, 2015
[http://lib.uconn.edu/libraries/homer-babbidge-library/]
Monday, April 27, 2015
Tuesday, April 7, 2015
Speechless
Dear Andrew,
The selection committee would like to invite you to be the Student Commencement Speaker for College of Liberal Arts & Sciences Undergraduate Commencement Ceremony! Congratulations!
Please feel free to ask Alex and I any questions at any time, as I’m sure you’ll have some. The selection committee is very excited to have you be such an important part of the ceremony.
Cheers,
Maryann
_______
Ironically, I am now all but out of words. More details as they come.
*stunned*
The selection committee would like to invite you to be the Student Commencement Speaker for College of Liberal Arts & Sciences Undergraduate Commencement Ceremony! Congratulations!
Please feel free to ask Alex and I any questions at any time, as I’m sure you’ll have some. The selection committee is very excited to have you be such an important part of the ceremony.
Cheers,
Maryann
_______
Ironically, I am now all but out of words. More details as they come.
*stunned*
Wednesday, April 1, 2015
In Anticipation of Impending Calamities
When you are kicked beneath the table for a third time as you study on the Quiet Floor, you may feel the need to respond. However, before you engage your more-likely-than-not-accidental-offender, there are a number of things you must carefully consider. For your benefit (and mine), I have compiled the most pertinent of these considerations into a list:
1. Do not address someone beginning in the middle of a thought. "I figured you must not have felt anything" does not compute and will, at best, earn you a prolonged blank stare.
2. Be aware that remaining completely silent for long periods of time while on Adderall causes one to accumulate "Enthusiasm Debt". That is, the longer one is silent, the more robust one is likely to be when the silence is finally broken. Additionally, note that this increase in volume in no way correlates with improved communication. Thus, "I FIGURED YOU MUST NOT HAVE FELT ANYTHING" is not only completely unclear but frightening as well.
3. Stretching is important. Do so for about 2-3 minutes once an hour to ensure good blood flow and limit discomfort such as cramping, muscle soreness, and involuntary spasms. "I FIGURED YOU MUST NOT HAVE FELT ANYTHING" while flailing about is not only entirely unclear, it very nearly constitutes a threat.
4. Resist the urge to leave immediately. In your haste, you will likely forget nearly all of your things. Returning to get them will be doubly embarrassing, as the entire floor favors you with either smoldering glares or tepid sympathy.
5. Do not apologize. Most certainly, do not attempt to apologize to everyone. None of them will understand and, besides, you'll likely still be falling victim to the occasional spasm.
6. Avoid confrontation. If a gentleman approaches you requesting that you keep it down, do not attempt to explain yourself. Your bout with the aforementioned spastic overabundance of enthusiasm will likely not have abated. Moreover, the gentleman will only "Shh!" you, inspiring a great many others to do the same.
7. Do not "Shh!" them back. Not only does this defeat the purpose of their "Shh!", it distracts you from the return of foot beneath the desk that touched off this unfortunate series of events to begin with. Instead, nod quietly and continue gathering your belongings, lest you risk being stepped on a fourth time.
8. Having been stepped on a fourth time, do no slam both hands upon the desk in frustration. The sound will be loud enough to frighten everyone, including you. Moreover, it will cause the loose confederation of enemies you've built to coalesce into a unified and highly motivated mob. Others will come from other parts of the Quiet Floor to investigate the ruckus and immediately align themselves against you.
9. Flee. Flee with great haste. There will be plenty of time to zip your bookbag shut on the elevator. Do not look behind you. They are coming. And they are greatly displeased.
10. Take the stairs. The elevator is a death trap. They'll only pile in right along with you and God only knows what horrors they have in store for you in recompence for your offenses. If possible, skip stairs. Keep in mind, you have the back of an 80 year old man and your bookbag has yet to be zipped closed. Nevertheless, continue to descend the stairs at lunatic speed - the frothing hoard of your enemies will, no doubt, be nearly upon you.
11. Leave everything. Save yourself. The spilled contents of your bag are all replaceable. Take no heed to the panicked squawks of childish fear instigated by your collision with the smallish mole of a woman descending the stairs. It is you they are after, not her. Flee as if your very life depends on it. In this instance, you may consider your confused yelp as a properly issued apology
12. Recover from your fall as quickly as you are able. In all likelihood, your back with now be spasming painfully. Compose a succinct apology and pray for sympathy. Regret never having been to Dublin. Make a mental note to investigate that strange deviation of thought at so critical a juncture. Return your thoughts to the mob. Farting at this stage is normal. You are frightened. Indeed, your life is in grave danger! Fart proudly.
13. Take careful notice of the absolute lack of a mob in hot pursuit. Puzzle over this, but only momentarily. Apologize to the mole-woman but do not bow at the waist while doing so. When she calls you an "asshole", do not exclaim, "I'M SORRY BUT... (PANTING) (HARD SWALLOW) I THOUGHT THEY WERE AFTER ME." This will only increase her anxiety and further add to her assurance that you are completely insane.
14. Ascend the stairs. Collect your things. Zip your bookbag. You may notice at this point that you have somehow injured your inner thigh. Do not reach into your pants to feel the wound. Others are on the stairs as well, and they will most certainly not understand. Don't bother apologizing for grimaces and moans as these cannot be help.
15. Avoid returning the to elevator for, when it opens, the "Shh!" fellow will most certainly be inside. He will be nonetheless displeased with you and will tell you so. He may also threaten to notify security. Ignore this. Do not say "FUCK YOU." It will only agitate him further, and you've no place to run this time.
16. Explode from the elevator like a shot. Hurl yourself into the exit doors and sprint toward your vehicle. In the event that you run out of breath within the first 8 steps of your flight to freedom, do your best to be as inconspicuous as you're able as you fall to your knees, clutching your chest and wheezing loudly.
17. Do not tell the kindly old man who asks how you are that you are dying. Remember: You are still yelling and he will take your pronouncement VERY seriously. He will no doubt glare at you once you've explained yourself. Embarrassment at this stage is to be expected. Endure this and continue toward your vehicle.
18. Having finally made it to the relative safety of your vehicle's interior, you will, no doubt, realize that you've left a few things behind in the library. Please know that these are things you can certainly live without. Do not return to the library to learn this the hard way. The "Shh!" Gentleman is still looking for you. And he now has your things.
19. Having survived the return to the library enduring only a stern warning from a rather handsome security guard and the frigid impotent gaze of GentlemanSHH!, be sure to remember that, when last you were in the car, you left the volume of your car radio at maximum. Forgetting this will only ensure that you frighten yourself a second time, touching off a fit of endless hysterical laughter.
20. Do not make eye contact with the woman exiting the car beside you. It will be awkward. You will be unable to cease your ridiculous laughter. And she will not look away for quite some time.
1. Do not address someone beginning in the middle of a thought. "I figured you must not have felt anything" does not compute and will, at best, earn you a prolonged blank stare.
2. Be aware that remaining completely silent for long periods of time while on Adderall causes one to accumulate "Enthusiasm Debt". That is, the longer one is silent, the more robust one is likely to be when the silence is finally broken. Additionally, note that this increase in volume in no way correlates with improved communication. Thus, "I FIGURED YOU MUST NOT HAVE FELT ANYTHING" is not only completely unclear but frightening as well.
3. Stretching is important. Do so for about 2-3 minutes once an hour to ensure good blood flow and limit discomfort such as cramping, muscle soreness, and involuntary spasms. "I FIGURED YOU MUST NOT HAVE FELT ANYTHING" while flailing about is not only entirely unclear, it very nearly constitutes a threat.
4. Resist the urge to leave immediately. In your haste, you will likely forget nearly all of your things. Returning to get them will be doubly embarrassing, as the entire floor favors you with either smoldering glares or tepid sympathy.
5. Do not apologize. Most certainly, do not attempt to apologize to everyone. None of them will understand and, besides, you'll likely still be falling victim to the occasional spasm.
6. Avoid confrontation. If a gentleman approaches you requesting that you keep it down, do not attempt to explain yourself. Your bout with the aforementioned spastic overabundance of enthusiasm will likely not have abated. Moreover, the gentleman will only "Shh!" you, inspiring a great many others to do the same.
7. Do not "Shh!" them back. Not only does this defeat the purpose of their "Shh!", it distracts you from the return of foot beneath the desk that touched off this unfortunate series of events to begin with. Instead, nod quietly and continue gathering your belongings, lest you risk being stepped on a fourth time.
8. Having been stepped on a fourth time, do no slam both hands upon the desk in frustration. The sound will be loud enough to frighten everyone, including you. Moreover, it will cause the loose confederation of enemies you've built to coalesce into a unified and highly motivated mob. Others will come from other parts of the Quiet Floor to investigate the ruckus and immediately align themselves against you.
9. Flee. Flee with great haste. There will be plenty of time to zip your bookbag shut on the elevator. Do not look behind you. They are coming. And they are greatly displeased.
10. Take the stairs. The elevator is a death trap. They'll only pile in right along with you and God only knows what horrors they have in store for you in recompence for your offenses. If possible, skip stairs. Keep in mind, you have the back of an 80 year old man and your bookbag has yet to be zipped closed. Nevertheless, continue to descend the stairs at lunatic speed - the frothing hoard of your enemies will, no doubt, be nearly upon you.
11. Leave everything. Save yourself. The spilled contents of your bag are all replaceable. Take no heed to the panicked squawks of childish fear instigated by your collision with the smallish mole of a woman descending the stairs. It is you they are after, not her. Flee as if your very life depends on it. In this instance, you may consider your confused yelp as a properly issued apology
12. Recover from your fall as quickly as you are able. In all likelihood, your back with now be spasming painfully. Compose a succinct apology and pray for sympathy. Regret never having been to Dublin. Make a mental note to investigate that strange deviation of thought at so critical a juncture. Return your thoughts to the mob. Farting at this stage is normal. You are frightened. Indeed, your life is in grave danger! Fart proudly.
13. Take careful notice of the absolute lack of a mob in hot pursuit. Puzzle over this, but only momentarily. Apologize to the mole-woman but do not bow at the waist while doing so. When she calls you an "asshole", do not exclaim, "I'M SORRY BUT... (PANTING) (HARD SWALLOW) I THOUGHT THEY WERE AFTER ME." This will only increase her anxiety and further add to her assurance that you are completely insane.
14. Ascend the stairs. Collect your things. Zip your bookbag. You may notice at this point that you have somehow injured your inner thigh. Do not reach into your pants to feel the wound. Others are on the stairs as well, and they will most certainly not understand. Don't bother apologizing for grimaces and moans as these cannot be help.
15. Avoid returning the to elevator for, when it opens, the "Shh!" fellow will most certainly be inside. He will be nonetheless displeased with you and will tell you so. He may also threaten to notify security. Ignore this. Do not say "FUCK YOU." It will only agitate him further, and you've no place to run this time.
16. Explode from the elevator like a shot. Hurl yourself into the exit doors and sprint toward your vehicle. In the event that you run out of breath within the first 8 steps of your flight to freedom, do your best to be as inconspicuous as you're able as you fall to your knees, clutching your chest and wheezing loudly.
17. Do not tell the kindly old man who asks how you are that you are dying. Remember: You are still yelling and he will take your pronouncement VERY seriously. He will no doubt glare at you once you've explained yourself. Embarrassment at this stage is to be expected. Endure this and continue toward your vehicle.
18. Having finally made it to the relative safety of your vehicle's interior, you will, no doubt, realize that you've left a few things behind in the library. Please know that these are things you can certainly live without. Do not return to the library to learn this the hard way. The "Shh!" Gentleman is still looking for you. And he now has your things.
19. Having survived the return to the library enduring only a stern warning from a rather handsome security guard and the frigid impotent gaze of GentlemanSHH!, be sure to remember that, when last you were in the car, you left the volume of your car radio at maximum. Forgetting this will only ensure that you frighten yourself a second time, touching off a fit of endless hysterical laughter.
20. Do not make eye contact with the woman exiting the car beside you. It will be awkward. You will be unable to cease your ridiculous laughter. And she will not look away for quite some time.
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
Meeting Your Maker
Sometimes, after a night of rumble-tossing guts and nightmares, you wake up to a morning that couldn't have started any worse. And then worse sours into something you can't swallow but must but cannot but absolutely have to!
And then you almost crash on the way to work and you tell the other driver that's he's #1 in your book, but you're not entirely sure that it wasn't YOUR fault because in the moment you honestly couldn't have cared enough about crashing to try and avoid much less assess it in the dwindling aftermath.
And then you get to school and your back gives our and you run your shoulder into a locked door for no reason and you skip breakfast and you don't say "good morning" to the library staff like you usually and you pile awful on top of awful until you finally get to the place where people are required to leave you in peace.
And then you get back from a one-quick-second-and-I'll-be-right-back trip to the bathroom to find your iPad is missing. And you look everywhere. And then you look EVERYWHERE. And then you feel something like giving up only set on fire.
And then you punch-kick-chaos your way down to the front desk like a rabid tornado. And she's not going to believe you and YES you can describe it and she doesn't understand that your academic everythings are on that iPad and ok of course you'll wait and you KNOW she's just going to come back and say, "I'm sorry. We don't have it" because that's what the day had been.
But you wait anyway, brooding like a thunderhead, sapping the happiness and electric joy from the air around you, clenching your fists, unclenching, clenching again, weaponizing the blood and water in your veins.
And then they find it. And they give it to you. And you're going to be late for class but hats ok now because this. And then you say thank you too many and not enough times, depressurized with gratitude, future-shamed and guilty of what you might have done. And the security guard takes you aside and says:
"It's none of my business but you seem like a man who carries all of his problems at once. Maybe you should start carrying what you can. Believe me, the other troubles well be right there waiting for you once you're strong enough."
You say "thanks" again, but it means something different this time. And then it hits you - maybe you're the problem.
And you think about that for a while. And you take the long way to class so you can sup and get breakfast. And you smile and say hello because it's who you are. And you raise your hand in class even though you don't know the answer. Because not knowing is OK. And you get that now.
And you start your day again, this time carrying only what you can. And you get on with getting on. And you do just fine.
And then you almost crash on the way to work and you tell the other driver that's he's #1 in your book, but you're not entirely sure that it wasn't YOUR fault because in the moment you honestly couldn't have cared enough about crashing to try and avoid much less assess it in the dwindling aftermath.
And then you get to school and your back gives our and you run your shoulder into a locked door for no reason and you skip breakfast and you don't say "good morning" to the library staff like you usually and you pile awful on top of awful until you finally get to the place where people are required to leave you in peace.
And then you get back from a one-quick-second-and-I'll-be-right-back trip to the bathroom to find your iPad is missing. And you look everywhere. And then you look EVERYWHERE. And then you feel something like giving up only set on fire.
And then you punch-kick-chaos your way down to the front desk like a rabid tornado. And she's not going to believe you and YES you can describe it and she doesn't understand that your academic everythings are on that iPad and ok of course you'll wait and you KNOW she's just going to come back and say, "I'm sorry. We don't have it" because that's what the day had been.
But you wait anyway, brooding like a thunderhead, sapping the happiness and electric joy from the air around you, clenching your fists, unclenching, clenching again, weaponizing the blood and water in your veins.
And then they find it. And they give it to you. And you're going to be late for class but hats ok now because this. And then you say thank you too many and not enough times, depressurized with gratitude, future-shamed and guilty of what you might have done. And the security guard takes you aside and says:
"It's none of my business but you seem like a man who carries all of his problems at once. Maybe you should start carrying what you can. Believe me, the other troubles well be right there waiting for you once you're strong enough."
You say "thanks" again, but it means something different this time. And then it hits you - maybe you're the problem.
And you think about that for a while. And you take the long way to class so you can sup and get breakfast. And you smile and say hello because it's who you are. And you raise your hand in class even though you don't know the answer. Because not knowing is OK. And you get that now.
And you start your day again, this time carrying only what you can. And you get on with getting on. And you do just fine.
Thursday, February 19, 2015
Sanctuary
There’s a peaceful almost humbling serenity about the Quiet Floor of the library, a citadel of nothingness perfumed with the dignified scent of aging yellowed paper.
There is a tyranny of silence here, thick as wool, at once indifferent and foreboding. Nothing makes a sound, save the lowly air exchanger and it is careful, pious, dutifully imperceptible. Even footfalls and rustling jacket seem muted, muffled, reverent.
It’s the only place I can think of on campus where people come in need of lacking. Less is more here, more is far too much, and none at all will do quite nicely if you please. None at all is what we’ll have and keep it coming, thank you.
Heads bowed, eyes open, fingers on keyboards make a chattering of mechanical teeth, a hundred ceremonies intersect and overlap, the cacophonous nothing of disparate unions.
There is a tyranny of silence here, thick as wool, at once indifferent and foreboding. Nothing makes a sound, save the lowly air exchanger and it is careful, pious, dutifully imperceptible. Even footfalls and rustling jacket seem muted, muffled, reverent.
It’s the only place I can think of on campus where people come in need of lacking. Less is more here, more is far too much, and none at all will do quite nicely if you please. None at all is what we’ll have and keep it coming, thank you.
Heads bowed, eyes open, fingers on keyboards make a chattering of mechanical teeth, a hundred ceremonies intersect and overlap, the cacophonous nothing of disparate unions.
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