I love this time of year. The weather is cold and the leaves are pretty. Gosh it’s great.
Considered together, those are possibly the three least creative sentences I’ve ever typed in my life. Based on that introduction, absolutely no one is going to compare my nature writing to the likes of Annie Dillard or Henry David Thoreau.
I can live with that. I don’t actually care for Annie “elliptical prose” Dillard or Henry “ooh look at me I moved to a cabin I’m the first ever person to commune with nature ever” Thoreau, also known as Henry “Ooh look at me I spent one lousy night in jail, suddenly I’m such a rebel dissident maybe now chicks will dig me” Thoreau.
Nothing against the transcendentalists—I’m fine with Ralph Waldo “like Thoreau, but not a prick” Emerson.
The point I was trying to make here is that I’m loving the weather and the trees are pretty. My language is uninspired and my sentiments are ordinary, but at least I can make fun of other people while I’m at it.
I love the weather to such an extent that I have not yet closed the windows. Normal people have already turned on the heat and lit up the fires, but not me. I like the cold, and I have no inclination whatsoever to start a fire in my home. This is probably for the best, as I do not have a fireplace.
The lovely cool air feels great and it encourages the kitties to snuggle. And having the windows open means that I can hear Goblin greet me when I get home each day. As soon as I pull in, she’s at the window meowing. Melts my heart.
(There is a possibility that she meows anytime a car pulls into the parking lot. Maybe she’s the apartment kitty whore, greeting every resident indiscriminately. I’ve posed the question to her, but she refuses to answer directly.)
I feel slightly ashamed. I’ve been reduced to writing about the weather. Unfortunately, except for those weeks when I lose my car keys, nothing exciting ever happens. I am not about to deliberately lose another valuable possession just for the sake of interesting writing material. Sorry.
But it is my duty to update this site regularly. I have legions of fans, if we interpret “legions” liberally.
Interpretation #1: “Legion” in the biblical sense. Jesus stumbled across a man possessed by a demon: “And Jesus asked him, What is thy name? And he answered, saying, My name is Legion, for we are many” (Mark 5:9.)
So perhaps I have a bunch of demons reading my blog regularly. It’s possible.
By the way, a much, much funnier version of this gospel story is told in Christopher Moore’s Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal. Don’t read this if you’re a conservative Christian. Do read it if you’re a liberal Christian, a person of some other persuasion, or a legion of demons. It’s hilarious.
Interpretation #2: My blog has legions of fans, if “legions” means “a coworker or two, my mom occasionally, and a handful of far-flung friends.”
I did have a live request for an update today. No really. Really! So here I am, fulfilling my duty.
And I discovered two days ago that I have readers I didn’t even know about. The best friend of my former roomie reads this thing. He instant messaged me a few days ago, possibly because I’d signed on for the first time in over a year. (Why? Because we’re planning to implement chat reference at the library. ’Bout damn time, if you ask me. I’m excited about it, and I’ve been working with a few other folks on the planning process. Do I have time for yet another project at work? No, absolutely not. I am swamped. But this is really fun to work on, and besides, it wasn’t exactly a choice. My boss volunteered me for it. Kinda hard to say no.)
So anyway Mike, who is the lifelong best bud of Rob, my roommate from college, saw me online. He dropped me a hello and we caught up on old news. Last time I talked to him, he wasn’t married, wasn’t studying for his MBA, wasn’t teaching computer classes at the community college. All that’s changed.
“Gosh,” I said. “I have nothing to compare to that. Um. I’ve been taking yoga this year?”
“Oh, I know,” he said. “I read it on your blog.”
Strange feeling, that: Someone I hadn’t talked to in well over a year knew everything going on with me. O’course, that’s the point of this blog, to keep people informed. And to make fun of dead writers I don’t like.
I just wish I had more exciting news to relate here. But nothing ever, ever happens.
Some might argue that nothing ever happens because I spend all my free time sitting in my apartment, reading and writing. This is specious reasoning. Emily “can’t rhyme properly” Dickinson never left her room, and she’s all famous and stuff. (Yes, that’s another transcendentalist I don’t like. I guess I don’t much care for late-nineteenth century American writing. Is it just me?)
I see no reason, whatsoever, at all, in any way, why a shy librarian who leads a reclusive existence can’t enjoy a life filled with adventure, glamour, and crime fighting. Yes: crime fighting. Of the superhero sort. I have a Wonder Woman hoodie, a pair of Superman undies, and a pair of flowery pastel galoshes, which is the next best thing to asskicking stiletto boots. I don’t think I could wear stilettos. I’d twist an ankle, and the bad guy would get away, and I’d disgrace myself amongst the superhero crime-fighting community. So no heels, but otherwise I have a passable superhero outfit that will keep my feet dry in the rain. If I can get my hands on a cape I’ll be all set.
There’s precedent, you know. Batgirl is a librarian. I will begin saving the local citizenry just as soon as I finish writing my book. In the meantime, I will do my best to shield them from the legions of demons reading this blog. It will be a dangerous endeavor, but it is the least I can do. If the season ends without a plague of locusts or a rain of frogs, you’ll know I’ve been successful.