Broome County Public Library, 01/28/06

Gladys sat at the edge of the coffee table and leaned over Estelle.

"I was making six or seven a day," Estelle whispered, "knitting scarves and caps for different stores around town. But my arthritis has become so bad I had to stop."

"I know so many people with arthritis." The women were dressed in the old style, wearing dark sweaters over drab dresses, their hair pinned back tightly. Estelle wore a wool overcoat and a red scarf with a subdued pattern. Everything about them suggested that they had never owned pants, and driving cars was a remarkable deal.

They spoke in hushed tones because we, all three of us, were in a library. I was seated close by them, and I eavesdropped as their conversation turned from knitting to arthritis to craft shops in town (the lady in Johnson City is nicer) to Estelle’s divorce. She stayed in Colorado for a while after she and her husband broke things off.

“I’m so unhappy with the religious right right now, I’ve pretty much turned away from the Church,” Estelle said.

“Oh, that’s sad.”

“I still believe in God.”

“Oh, of course.”

“It’s just that there are so many of them. There’s one God who wants war, one God who wants peace, one God who says the poor have to take care of themselves, one God who—”

“You’re going on and on.”

“Oh yes,” Estelle said. A girl rapped on the window behind us and ran away giggling. “What happened? I guess someone knocked on the window.”

“I was so mad at God when my son died,” Gladys intoned, hunching even further over Estelle.

“When your son died.”

“I was so, so angry at God. I can’t tell you.”

“Oh.”

“But the Bible says if you believe and are saved. . . . You just get so disillusioned.” Their conversation continued at a sincere and meaningful level for several more minutes until Gladys, who had run out of things to say about the choir, reverted to a platitude about still having a mission, which was why she was still here. And, somehow, the conversation returned to knitting.

“Knitting is a marvelous form of psychotherapy.”

The library was unusually active. A man with downs syndrome stood at a table several feet away, staring at a stack of books as if he’d forgotten what they were meant to do. He seemed really magnificent, almost cherubic, in his white sweatpants and tank top. Finally, he picked up the books and hugged them to his belly. He ambled away like that.

Next to me a young woman wearing a Riverdance tee shirt sat down to scan through some books about horses. She had just finished a book about training dogs. After a while she stepped away, then returned smiling broadly. She had another horse book.

And a sharp-looking man dressed like a hip-hop kingpin took a seat and read Newsweek. Estelle and Gladys continued talking.

“What have you got?” Estelle asked. Gladys showed her the videotapes she was borrowing from the library.

“I see, funny stuff. That Milton Berle. You know, I always tell a joke I think I got from Milton Berle. It’s pretty short. I always tell jokes quickly. This man has a job delivering a penguin to the zoo, but on the way his truck breaks down. ‘Oh no’, he thinks, but then he sees his friend coming and his friend drives a truck, too. So he waves him down and his friend says no problem, he’ll take the penguin. The man is very grateful and says, ‘Just remember, the zoo closes at 5’. Well, later on the man is driving home happily when he sees his friend walking down the street with the penguin following just a few feet behind him. The man quickly pulls over. He’s very excited. ‘What happened’, the guy says, ‘I told you he had to get to the zoo by 5’! ‘Don’t worry about it, the friend says. We went, he had a great time, and now we’re going to the movies’! Ha, ha,” Estelle laughed, “I just think that’s cute.”

A young boy wanted to look at Wired but his mother told him that it was a grown-up magazine. “Who cares,” he said. “I care,” she responded. “This is going to take forever,” the boy said. There was an article in Wired that featured Burning Man Festival, and a photo spread showed a fulsome girl with her breasts painted blue.

Behind where Gladys perched a heavy-set, poor-looking man sat down with a paperback novel written by Anne Rice. The women kept up their chat, despite his proximity. Estelle’s brother was a musician with the local symphony and the Cooperstown opera, and that meant she had to spend a lot of time taking care of her mother, but her own health wasn’t great, and her mother clearly favored her brother, who was also divorced (from a violinist who’s mother was a psychiatrist which made Estelle think they were a neat family) and, even though her brother really is busy, with the garden too, she was not excited about having to look after her mother.

The chairs at the library can rightly be considered an event. The chairs make sense of things, become a fulcrum of the community. After a while, Estelle excused herself and Gladys returned to her seat. The boy whined, “Mom, can we go home? I’m tired.” A woman across from where Estelle had been sitting screwed up her lips as she read a harlequin romance. Urban fashion suddenly made sense; bright yellow fabric with camouflage patterns render a person see-through in such a colorful society.

Gladys was sitting alone and had fallen asleep. There were plenty of people browsing the library’s video collection, but I was the only person in the chairs when her son came to pick her up.

“Hey, Sweetie,” he said, touching her arm lightly. Gladys awoke.

“I met the most lovely lady,” she told the man. “We talked for quite a little while. She’s having a bit of a row with her mother, who isn’t treating her well.”

“Really?” said the man. “That’s too bad.”

Gladys looked over to where Estelle had been. “She isn’t here now.”

“Have you seen Becky? I dropped her off at the Salvation Army. She was going to walk here and meet us.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“I’ll see if I can find her, and then we’ll come to pick you up.” He walked away, stopped between a rack of books and adjusted his shoe, went on. Two girls were playing hide-and-seek. A woman moved her lips as she read.

More self promotion

I hope you'll take a minute to read the new poem I wrote, called "The Future Killer." It's my best yet, and I spent several hours writing it. Thank's chiefjason for allowing me to advertise here pro bono.

Rossiya

For those that have ever been to Russia or are interested in Russia, they are tearing down the Rossiya hotel that bordered Red Square. In this article they refer to it as an eyesore, but I remember kind of liking it. Oh well.

Also in the news were two bomb blasts in Iran. Read about it here.

HL Mencken

So, you know that Adam and Stephanie--Cardinal--are performing an operetta about HL Mencken on April 8th, and of course you're gonna be there and all. But do you know anything about HL Mencken? Well I sure as hell don't either, so I went and used my $20 gift certificate for Barnes and Noble that I got for Christmas from my wife's brother, Matt, and ordered two books authored by Mencken. The first, In Defense of Women, seems to be the better known of his works and was easy to find cheap, so I hooked up with that. The second, A Carnival of Buncombe, seemed like a good pick mainly because of it's title, so I "put that in my cart" so to speak.

Another thing you might not know is that I got the only bootleg copy of one of the songs that Cardinal will perform on April 8th. It's got me on guitar if I remember right. Yeah, that'll probably sell for a good chunkachange here pretty soon.

What am I reading right now you ask? Well, I'm about three quarters of the way through The Idiot but seemed to have been distracted from it. I came across some old notes from college--the notes from my semester in Russia and two notebooks from systematic theology. I even broke out a little Marion in there. The book I'm currently reading the most is The Wounded Land by Stephen R. Donaldson. It's a series I read in high school that I am enjoying again the second time around. Donaldson's actually a pretty good author if you feel like taking a break from all of your Socrates and Bacon and Lacan and what not.

Hm. Bacon and Lacan. Sounds like a sandwich.

Hey Adam

Hey Adam. I think you should damn ride your bike over to my house.

Jason

Cardinal

Cardinal, I guess, is now officially the musical collaboration of Stephanie Barber and me. So far, Cardinal has written an operetta about HL Mencken. You can see it on April 8, in Baltimore. Click the image for details.

Publishing Genius

I am delighted to use The Tarantular to unveil my new web space. The Tarantular gets over 15 visits every day, which will surely bolster my internet presence. I hope everyone likes Publishing Genius. Poems daily, archives, and links to the best poetry journals. At Publishing Genius, we publish genius.

I'm An Administrator

My name is Adam T. Robinson, and I'm an administrator.

Pure Bush League

Jason Lee had an error last night at 3rd base, struck out once, and worked a walk. I bat him third because he's hitting .290, but he didn't come through last night in several clutch moments. I like his patience at the plate, though.

Here's the batting order for today's game:

Adam Robinson 2B 0.407
Dmitri Lutsker OF 0.182
Jason Lee 3B 0.290
Stephanie Barber C 0.348
Bill Brower OF 0.182
Benji Bergstrand SS 0.327
Craig Griffin OF 0.130
Bethany Hamann 2B 0.125
Alan Robinson P 0.091

The second half of the lineup looks pretty weak. That is wholly thanks to Jeff Snowbarger taking his big bat and going AWOL. Apparently, he likes to watch "Friends." I considered putting my old roomie Jonathan Burks in to pitch because he hits slightly better than my brother, but Alan has better control and today's ump is finicky. Also, we're playing in a hitter's park, today.

Abby Lee

Abby's got a new post on her blog. You should check it out.

Update: I apparently remain unscathed, despite the tenor of the post.