Friday, December 17, 2010

The library (non) incident

I dropped the books on the collection box inside the wall, tried to walked through the automatic doors, and was blocked.  The library was just about open, but not yet.  The thump on the door made sure that everyone knew I was coming.  This library has a post-modern bunker style architecture.

Even though I had my book details at hand, I was lost in "words".  So I went for the nearest computer terminal to find my way around.  Once I got there, I noticed that there were something wrong, as if walking into the wrong room in a massage parlor, the resting room for staff masseuses.  So I was immediately blocked by a staff in a nice way.  Those were terminals for staff, not library users.

Librarians are as helpful as masseuses, desperate to do the "everything" for you.  For librarians, nothing interesting ever happens in libraries, or nothing ever happens.  For masseuses, they want the last dollar in your pocket.

This librarian is very mature, went for the neat shorter hair that will not mess up even after a long working in a massage parlor.  She had sexy glasses, which might be a piece of my sexual fantasy.  She obviously eat enough healthy food and have enough soft exercise going up and down the library all day.  She spoke very softly, as if not to let people hear her in the adjacent massage room through the wafer thin walls.  Immediately I could feel the sexual tension developing, albeit unilateral. 

She asked what I had got.  I wished to unzip myself but I handed my piece of paper to her.

"Juvenile", she said in a reflex action, after looking up at the terminal.  It was a little unexpected to her, like "with your fat wallet in your pocket, all you ask for is a hand job?".  You must be a newbie.  I'll take you to the secret hideaway and take good care of you for all you worth.

After a split second her perfect mannerism returned and led me to the destination.  I followed close behind her just as I followed my masseuses, especially those who are untouchable or just offer a hand job, with no chance of getting any closer.

Like a ninja, all of a sudden she turned into the space between two shelves and knelled down in one swift, perfectly coordinated motion.  Following close behind, I almost bumped into her.  At this point, I really forget that we were in a library and she was going to unzip me and blow.

But sadly, she knew the book I wanted was right down there, without the need to look at any identifying numbers and letters.  I had a few second to enjoy the thought of she blowing me in a library.  Then she picked up the book for me.

After we exchanged good manners, I left.  There's no need for extra words, extra looks in the eye.  Like any masseuses, all they have to do is to express their gratitude of your patronage.  If they had done a good job you will come back.

I went to the libraries because my kids exhausted the school library.  My initial strategy was to let them loose.  They will have an easy school life like me, and I don't need to do anything.  But the strategy backfired.  In my time and place we do not have accelerated classes, but they have.  And there's no limit.  Together they turned the system upside down.  They aren't supposed to be the best, since I don't push them, but there's no more books suitable for them in the school library.

In summer holidays they come out of the public library in supermarket trolleys.  If I order books ourselves it will cost a fortune.  For library books they can return immediately the books that they don't like without waste.

If I mock up something substantial I could have been a home schooling guru.  For one child you can blame it on genetics.  More than that you have to believe whatever methodology I come up with.  Because I write with an accent, and you can imagine how I speak.  Imagine that if my "method" works for my kids, it will work for everybody.

When you go up their reading list, the books scatter all over the county.   The other day we went to a historical building to pick up the books.  Because it was so warm (in winter!), we read the books at the rose garden outside, in a gazebo. 

I asked my dumbest kid where we were, expecting to teach her the word gazebo.  "Octagon", she replied as a matter of fact.  I didn't know where she got it from as she wasn't supposed to understand hexagon.  It was me who is dumber, never associating a gazebo with an octagon.  I started counting, and it was indeed an octagon.  Silly me.

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