I got a label maker at work. I can’t begin to explain how much I’ve wanted a label maker in my adult life. Never have gotten one, because even though the desire is there — my practical self can’t really find a use for one in the home. Labels in the home would seem too . . . well just too organized. And total organization isn’t what I want when I’m at home. There needs to be a corner or two (or table or two) that is wild and unkempt and totally mysterious. Will the bill go unpaid? How big can that dust ball get?

But work me is different. There are a million things I could label. I’m a librarian after all. Tagging and naming and organizing is part of the process. (Ignoring my desk, of course.)  So this month begins the new subscriptions that I’ve ordered. I do so love the beginning of a fiscal year. And with that, the chance to re-organize my magazines. Behind me now, the labels are all neatly lined on the shelves, identifying place, providing order. Well, it makes me happy. It’s like I can pretend to be this other person. Part of me wonders if that’s what work should be — our pretend grown up selves, making labels and writing reports and being serious about things that matter to others. All the while masking that little girl in adult clothes and makeup and schedules — but she’s still there, gleefully making labels, knowing this is all just make-believe.

Well, as promised, the NC State Fair was good stuff. I ate half of a meaty, cheesy sandwich, I introduced Shelby to Kettle Corn, there were ribbon fries that we paid another vendor to cover in cheese, lovely floral displays and gardens, farm animals, chicken rooster madness, it was a great fair. But there was something that I was not prepared for — duck butt.

Apparently North Carolinians are into racing, who knew? And they hold a pig race at the fair. This may be the cutest event in the history of fairdom. Little piglets run around a loop with the promise of Cheetos driving them into a frenzy. The curly little tails,  short legs, tiny squeals and cheering from children and adult onlookers. It was too much. And followed by billy goats and pot-bellied pigs. But then, the cream on top of it all, the duck race (or were they geese?). I don’t know if I’ve ever laughed as hard as I did at that moment (with an exception of one evening watching Twilight with Lori, Mendy and Heather). I think the neighboring children were concerned with my well-being. I can’t even describe what happened. Just know that duck butts waddling in slow pursuit of some cheesy crumbs put me over the edge. I’ve been pushed back into a childlike state and I really don’t want to recover from it.

I’ll get to the pictures from that visit and the farm soon enough.

My parents are considering selling the farmhouse. They have been there for over a decade and that is a long time for them to stay still. I went down over the weekend to say hello to the Bobs (my former cats) and to visit. The angel trumpet had just bloomed, the confederate roses were changing from white to pink, it’s a lovely spot. I know for my dad, deciding to sell the place of his childhood is beyond a tough decision. That’s the kind of thing he can be good at though, deciding things. And my parents have a lot of flaws, like all of us, but fear of taking risks is not one of them.

But naturally it’s bittersweet. I know I’d never want to live there. I can’t imagine my brother ever would be happy there — but it is the one place that threads throughout my personal timeline. It comes close to being my constant—but that’s not the truth. Like everything, it has changed. Thinking about this on my drive to Atlanta, I realized the true constant lies in my parents — their ability to keep moving, keep changing, keep taking that leap in a moving van — pushing the horizon. The sound of wheels on asphalt driving down the road is the steady beat of my family. The only true constant is change.

Will post pictures later when time permits.

As I exit the bat cave in the morning, it is a bit darker now. Sunrise is in progress over Mary Mac’s parking lot and the sky gives me a rosy glow. I wish for a camera, but something about it is so personal, so perfect, I’d rather not share.

Everything is darker now (in part due to the re-paving of Myrtle). It’s my last few moments of quiet, that short stretch of pavement. As soon as I take a right on Piedmont, the rest of Atlanta begins catching up with me. It’s nice. It’s coffee weather. Sweaters are needed for more than just my climate controlled existence in a building. I know it’s time to add another blanket on the bed and set my alarm clock earlier because fall mornings take longer to start. These are the last shreds of summer, still slightly green in the trees.

I wish I could wrap it all up and keep it for the frenetic and frenzy. Just writing it down to savour later.

Progress in the search for an AIDS vaccine: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/09/25/health/research/25aids.html

I’ve been waiting for this since I was very young and watching the first person I knew die of AIDS. And some (maybe reasonably so), let’s just call them Justin, have pointed out it seems like very little progress — but for a change I’m trying on some optimism. For every person that helped raise me, took care of me, fixed my hair and cooked for me that is now dead from this disease — I’m saying today is a day to be happy about.

Another, globally less significant but esthetically pleasing, thing is this blog about literary tattoos: http://www.contrariwise.org It’s full of really cool stuff. I was disappointed there was not a documented example of Faulkner on flesh and only one Melville — come on people, get your words on! Thanks Lori for the find.

And Margaret Atwood released The Year of the Flood the day Atlanta flooded. The flooding part didn’t make me happy, the coincidence does appeal to me, but Atwood releasing a book really knocks a few endorphins around in my skull. Can’t wait to read it.

I’m putting these positive things out there. There has been a lot in the news that honestly makes me cry. There has been a lot in life that leaves me confused and angry. But why focus on that here. For the moment, I’m only going to put the good word out. Add a bliss list of your own.

Today, being the 15th of September in the year 2009, is my one year anniversary of working at Westwood. Not surprisingly, there was no cake or balloons or anything really. I did get a card in the mail from the Campus President; which is thoughtful and appreciated. I share my anniversary with a girl, Vanessa, who works downstairs in admissions. We have been congratulating each other all day and both agreed it’s best not to remind people.

My goal, in taking this job, was to make it at least a year. And I made it! It’s been a bit tiring at times, but well worth it. I’m typing this in the presence of a few students working on assignments. One of them is an older student who at one point screamed at me, called me a b-word, definitely had issues with me and my rules of respect. She now calls me Julia. Hangs out in here. Thanks me at least once a week for helping her. Invites me to student events. People may not change, but situations can. And being here, getting to know a different kind of academic model — well that has changed the way I view education, students and hope. The lessons I teach them may help them get a job, be a better researcher, cite something correctly, make them think about information and how to analyze it. The lessons they taught me are written on my consciousness. Once again, my perception expands. There is too much beauty in this world to understand. At times you just have to live.

As for new discoveries, I went to Dekalb Farmers’ Market and was giddy with the spices, the deals, the whole thing. Wish I’d discovered it sooner. It actually makes me not miss Sant’ Ambrogio in Florence as much. It’s huge. It’s cheap. It’s bliss.

Smoke from the grill, lemonade, gathering of friends on the lawn, the last dip in the pool and eating key lime pie in the moonlight. Nah. This was not my labor day weekend.

When I was about 20, I was bit by a brown recluse. Which is entirely irrelevant to what I’m saying, except the recluse part. This labor day, I insisted (at times in very loud tones) to be alone. I wanted to nest. I was screaming for solitude. Humanity, family, friends, even the furry beasts, had to be put on hold. I spent my labor day weekend (for the most part) in solitude. Saturday night I finally felt like I could handle some company and had a dinner and drinks with the ladies. Yesterday my brother came by and took away the curtains and rugs — all those trappings of dust — and that was it. Mission accomplished. My soul feels calmer. I’ve avoided eyes and minds. It’s good.

Of course, now I’m back. Lots of students around me. I still feel calm, and unlike the poor spider in the bed of my 20-year-old self, I’ll try not to bite anyone if they come into contact.

Hope everyone had a safe Labor Day and got to spend it the way they wanted!

What a better way to celebrate the end of August than with some stellar poetry. A very wise person led me to this one. I’m sending it out to you, all of you. It’s not mine — so much better. Enjoy!

I
by Wendel Berry (1979)

I go among trees and sit still.
All my stirring becomes quiet
around me like circles on water.
My tasks lie in their places
where I left them, asleep like cattle.

Then what is afraid of me comes
and lives a while in my sight.
What it fears in me leaves me,
and the fear of me leaves it.
It sings, and I hear its song.

Then what I am afraid of comes.
I live for a while in its sight.
What I fear in it leaves it,
and the fear of it leaves me.
It sings, and I hear its song.

After days of labor,
mute in my consternations,
I hear my song at last,
and I sing it.  As we sing,
the day turns, the trees move.

Soulpancake is a fun site that tries to give voice to all of us out there in answering life’s big questions. If you’ve never checked it out, and you like to contemplate the depth of the well, then you should hop over there. (Thanks Shelby for introducing it to me.)

I am not an incredibly active participant. Occasionally I’ll answer a question. Today was one such day. They asked what are the top 5 things you miss. Since most of you do not Twitter me or Facebook me (or any of the other obnoxious, highly entertaining ways people communicate now) I thought I’d post mine here. But really do go and read some of the other answers. It’s nice and personal and somehow encouraging.

In no real order mine are:

• The feeling that everything was mysterious, connected and somewhat magical.
• Time away from technology.
• Guilt free swilling of coca-cola and eating hostess cupcakes.
• Mixed tapes, mohawks, leather jackets and the ability to appreciate punk (i.e being 16).
• My cat Skunk Ape.

Naturally I’ve lost people in my life who would make the list — namely my grandmother, grandfather and aunt — but there are others that miss them more and to put them in a list doesn’t seem fair to them. For the same reason Skunk Ape was almost excluded, but if I had to prioritize my list, she would be the number one thing I miss.

What would your top 5 be?

(Oh, and the series Northern Exposure almost made the list. )

This may shock you (or not, really, most of you don’t know me) but I just read “M., Singing” by Louise Bogan and wow, why haven’t I read her before? Or if I have, why don’t I remember?

Now, innocent, within the deep
Night of all things you turn the key,
Unloosing what we know in sleep.

It’s just a sample. But wow. . . must read more. Any Boganphiles out there let me know what to read and where to begin.