Wednesday, December 2, 2009

Not so much a rant -- more of a ramble.

I'd like to make myself believe
That planet Earth turns slowly.
~Owl City

I am an adventurer, all long brown hair and a wool hip-length sweater I got from the Salvation Army that sports coffee stains. I brought my classes to the library today. For once in my life, I'm ahead. I collected their final papers, then came up with a homework exercise that sorta utilizes Chapter 8 of their books, "Writing about Visuals." We're at the University of Dayton library looking at what must surely be the largest collection of manger scenes in the country, nay the world, and my industrial little students are going to write about them. Of course there are also some paintings on the top floor they can use, but why go up 7 floors, when the assignment can be completed from the first?

The paintings, by the way, are perfect. They are of Mary and the nativity, and there's even one of Noah. They are wavy lines and clear ovals and glitter. Yes, glitter. They are purple and hot pink. They are rockstar paintings of religious happenings, and I love them.

Of course the real work of art is found in the stacks. I wonder if this feeling will ever go away? I frequent libraries, yet I just can't get over that there is a place with so many words just there for the taking.

I usually gravitate to the second floor here, because my name is on the shelves along with Tolstoy and King. My thesis is here, bound in hardback, looking like it actually belongs.

But back to my adventuring. For one, this is the fourth computer I've tried to get on. I've been on every floor, save the 4th, and while on the 7th, a random group of people with artifacts for the collection asked me to take their picture. They'd just finished a radio show in the same room.

I'll miss this place, these books. Maybe I'll be back in the fall. There is certainly a lot of history here at UD, and some of it is mine.

1 comment:

  1. Makes me feel smug knowing your volume is there, sitting with the rest. You are a poet... you are. I know this doesn't seem a poem, but it is. The words you write hold me spell bound. I wish I could articulate my feeling as you do with seemingly such ease.


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