I've been sneaking out of late, trolling like a…oh, never mind. I've been going to the library, okay? Something I haven't done since my days at SFSU, when I had fantastic big 80s hair, wore excessive eyeliner, and thought I was Miss Fancy Pants because of my Joan & David shoes (where did I get that idea? Why did no one correct me?).
When we lived in Santa Barbara, I went to the library once a week, but strictly as a literacy tutor for a young mother of four who always showed up at the appointed time, but was never interested in doing any work. I've marked that experience as one of the great mysteries of my life, and perhaps it will one day make it into a story. Anyhoots, I didn't loiter at that particular library because it was a smelly sort of place with unfortunate, unbathed folks sleeping in the stacks.
But oh how I love the library here in Burlingame. It's old and vaguely Spanish, with heavy, glazed tiles that send the click of visitors' heels bouncing off the high ceiling. I veer left upon entering and stride into the room with the arched glass windows, dark wood and deep, Mission-style leather chairs. I'll ease into one of these or, if my iBook isn't charged, I'll claim a cubby and plug in. I don't read in the library; I just write.
It's a little like home because I can sometimes hear the sound of kids filtering over from the children's area, but they're not mine and they’re not asking me for graham crackers or announcing their intention to pee shortly or engaging me in a rollicking debate about why they should be allowed to walk outside without shoes. So while I can hear the noise, I don't have to listen.
That's all I need sometimes. Just forty-five minutes of that.
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