Yarborough Branch, Austin, Texas

The Yarborough Branch was added to my agenda by recommendation of the remarkable, indomitable CRod, even though she hates that moniker, yet it is tied to her forever and cannot be erased, unlike Microsoft Office. Microsoft Office can be erased. I heard that happened once.

Yarborough is definitely the cool kid in this Austin school of library fishies, first and foremost because it is located inside an old theater and still retains the original signage out front. What is most extraordinary, however, is the scale of the place, which is impossible to capture, though I have tried. Wanting to learn more about the library and just how it came to be, I found a great blog post that details the whole history of the place, linked here.

Better yet is the joy of finding many tables to spread out, plug in, and start tapping away. The Yarborough is full of people doing just that, or working in the computer area, or perusing the stacks, and it is a relief to find it is a comfortable space to spend some quality time. I don't mean to pour icy Haterade down Hampton's back like some gum-cracking, hair-yanking, bleached blonde, high school pit viper, but the difference must be stated. It is quiet and gentle here. It was cacophonous and claustrophobic there. Sometimes the truth hurts, bitches. 

I was considering going to the LBJ library until it occurred to me that I should probably look it up first and ensure that I understood what to expect. And sure enough, it isn't really a library, from what I can tell, anyway. It is more of a museum/research center, where people can visit just to see the place as a historical monument to LBJ, look at special collections on display, and of course researchers can apply to do LBJ-associated work and spend actual time there...but it is not for the casual patron. To me, at least, the term "library" suggests usage by the public at will (save closings for special events, holidays, etc.). And while many university libraries are closed to non-students, it wasn't like only science students could study at the Anschutz library and only liberal arts students could study at spooky old Watson. You could study wherever you damned well pleased. 

The times I tried to study at Watson were complete failures: the library itself is a distraction, with its supernatural creaking and drafts from God knows where. The study cubicles were these hard little metal desks set through the stacks, so people would come up on you suddenly, from around the corner, without warning... because while there were creaks and squeaks, normal sounds like footsteps and voices echoed through the library from other floors (there are half floors, did I mention that. Jesus God Help Us, half floors), but you'd never hear someone just feet away. I can't tell you how  many times I scared the living shit out of some poor grad student, already strained with stress and sleeplessness, as I wheeled a shrieking, splintery old stacks truck around the corner. Because they hadn't heard it--at least with any perception of distance--until just that moment. Because Watson is a freaking door to another dimension, I am telling y'all.

Anyway, when I really wanted to study, I'd set up shop in my dorm room first (mmm smoking section) or Anschutz second. Because it was bright, airy, and open--lots of windows, super high ceilings, and tons of places to study. Although Anschutz did have a scary place...a very dark, very grim area in the basement (where else) where the stacks were tall graymetal goliaths set too tight together, and the lights were timed. Worse yet, this is where the aforementioned, cheesecake loving librarians had sent the Dewey Decimal books to die. The rest of the building was all Library of Congress, but Anschutz still had to house some straggler Deweys and damn them to Hell for their impertinent numbering...they would languish in the basement at least as long as I worked there. The basement was also where the elderly books resided. Their leather binding was slowly going to rot, turning into this orange, fluffy powder that would stain your hands and clothes if you didn't handle them like a wet cat. 

Stacks folks got along like gangbusters for the most part, until one of those basement trucks filled up and was ready to go, and then we all turned into squabbling children playing a noisy game of "Not It." While not only would you expect to come back filthy, sweaty, and orange, it would also take an entire 4-hour shift to complete one truck (As opposed to a regular truck, which could take anywhere from 30 minutes to an hour).  

And why would it take four hours? Well, there was one other Special Creature sent to the basement to die. And it is the one part of library work that I absolutely agree should die: Government Fucking Docs. HATE. Spitting, clawing, kicking HATE. I am sure Government Docs are Just Wonderful in other collections at other libraries, but Anschutz's were all maps and surveys, each one a skinny sliver of nothing with the classification labels on the front, not the spine. This meant that your grubby, tired ass had to stand at the end of a long, narrow row, press the button for the light (which emitted a terminal, churning buzz), then race down the aisle to find the right section, right shelf, then pull out one after the other of often tightly packed gov docs pamphlets until you found the one between .09898970 and .09898972. And even though it was cold as death down there, and you were the only person on the entire floor (except for the murderer sitting in the darkest edges of the stacks, waiting with his icy little scalpel, of course), you'd start to sweat hard. So there you are, arms full of gov docs--impossible to just slide in and out with ease because the binding on the spine was so sticky--feverishly trying to get the last few jammed in with the rest of the infernal lot when. The lights-

Go.

Out.

Since the whole side of that building has timed lights, yours was the only one on, anyway, so it is Dark. Much darker than one might think. So you race to the light of the central floor because now you can hear breathing and the scrape, scrape, scrape of a scalpel against the sticky spines behind you and God help you if you forgot there was a stool in the way and go sprawling (yes, this happened at least once) because the stacks are closing in and the light beyond is growing dim and the whisper of a thin blade is right at your nape, flick flick flick...and then you burst out of the end of the bay, smack that light on (and the two on each nearest stacks for good measure), and just sit there and breathe for a minute, letting reality reassert itself while planning your coworkers' doom. 

Anyway, I like roomy, well-lit libraries. With air.

Hampton Branch at Oak Hill, Austin, Texas

Everything feels skewed and strange, but I'm probably still discombobulated from watching Get Out at the Alamo Drafthouse yesterday. There are many across the city, I chose the South Lamar location due to its proximity to the Ruiz library and the fact that it played standard flix (as opposed to the closest location, which only had "art house" showings at later times...I am not sure I would consider The Warriors an art house movie, though it is life changing).

Get Out is smart, cutting, and uncomfortable; it is in many ways the cinematic equivalent of side eye. Good God, Allison Williams with that goddamned bowl of Fruit Loops, glass of milk, having the "time of her life"? I just about fell out of the chair. It pinches in all the soft parts, and if you don't squirm and groan at least once, you are clearly missing the point. Mixing the sociological incongruities and injustices with straight up horror is just brilliant. I don't think I've ever rooted quite so hard for a protagonist (Daniel Kaluuya, shattering) in my life, especially since horror fans are all too aware of the vicious Night of the Living Dead conclusion, where we learn the hard, cold truth that there really is no justice, no fairness, just an ugly white light of the now.

When I pulled up to the Hampton Branch at Oak Hill this morning, the dissociation was still lingering. I felt a little exposed and a lot spread thin, seeing things through a fantastical lens (more on that in a minute) that was not entirely bad, at least until I entered the library.

It is a very small space. All previous small libraries I've documented were nowhere near as small. The only space reserved for deskwork is dead smack in the center of the library's main expressway: On one side, the DVD collection, on the other side, children's books. I had to put on my headphones to block out the constant noise.

It is a library due for refurbishment (it says so on the website) but they have a pretty large collection of books for such a small space. The library is clean and well kept, though, as the website would suggest, new carpet, chairs, etc., would make a huge difference.

What threw me off, especially this morning, was how strange everyone seemed when I walked in through the main doors. The way front desk staff treats patrons when they first arrive makes every difference to people like me (anxiety prone, hyper sensitive, especially when freefloating and not quite "anchored in"). Two women were speaking together at the front desk, then stopped and looked at me pointedly--one beat, two beats, three. I charged forward (never retreat--it is the instinct but feels so much worse in the long run) trying to keep my expression neutral because I know more often than not it is my imagination running wild, and nothing more insidious than that. But the feeling persisted. Since I've been here, the hustle and bustle of this library has been nothing short of Soviet-propaganda-film levels of industry, and for such a small library it's just plain weird. I don't know, perhaps they haven't shelved books in weeks and today is the Big Day. People, people everywhere. All glancing far too often for no logical reason.

My decision to use AirBNB on this trip is a very conscious effort to confront my discomfort in other people's homes. So far my experiences have been mostly positive, but there is always an undercurrent of self consciousness; I am a stranger occupying someone else's space and I am never really welcome. Even if I am, it doesn't matter: In my head, I do not belong here. Most of the libraries I've visited feel like deliberately public spaces. They are a blank slate, an open arena that no one owns and everyone belongs. The Hampton at Oak Hill feels quite the opposite, so it's best I keep it brief. I am going to do some research then book it out of here.

There was one thing, though. That fantastical bit? When I pulled up I found a perfect, shady space at the back of the lot, right on the edge of a large greenspace with two curious indentations.

A giant sat upon yon field.

Ruiz Branch Library, Austin, Texas

So far, Austin has been a series of endless highways with brief moments in the city itself. Last night, I tried to just drive around to get a sense of the place and I regretted it immediately. Austin is nothing if not choked with cars, cars, trucks, big trucks, construction vehicles, and more trucks. You have to have the patience of a newt to mentally deal with Austin traffic. (Why newt? Because I know newts. These little turds would rather starve than give you the satisfaction of successfully feeding them. Of course this was college, their habitat was not great, and if I had to do it over again, Never Newts, leave them in nature where they belong, but ya know, hindsight and all that. Have you ever tried to force feed a newt? They are the size of a nickle and they hate you with every fiber of their being and are slippery in their rage against the giant hand.)

I am not even sure if Austin has a downtown--perhaps I will try to locate it tomorrow. Today I am doing the the Alamo Drafthouse thing, though I will not be experiencing it as most, I am sure, think it should be experienced (with alcohol), it will be a Real Austin thing to do and I am really looking forward to it. I've chosen one of the "Hollywood" locations that plays standard fair on a schedule throughout the day (sorry, arthouse is not in myhouse) and plan to make the 4:15 showing of Get Out, the only movie I've been interested in seeing lately. I am leaving insanely early, however, because God knows how long it will take to get there, since it is just blocks away. An hour? An hour should be good.

It was another highway journey to get to the Ruiz Branch Library this morning, and I was glad that the payoff was so steep. This library is gorgeous. When you walk in, the ceiling soars high above and you get this phenomenal sense of space that is, as it turns out, well conceived and utilized. The front desk is tucked to the right and the meeting rooms are tucked to the left, while the computer banks and a main reading area are straight ahead.

Behind the computers are the stacks, the style of which I will call Erin's Idea of Awesome, circa 1998, when I was big into buying picture frames from Umbra and they all basically looked like this: pine or cherry wood with black accents. You know how you become blind to certain things? Like, I have no idea if Duran Duran is a good band or what. My little 11-year-old brain caught fire with the very idea of them in 1983 and I've been branded and oblivious ever since. I am guessing they are good? Because of popularity and not just cuuuuuteness? But I have no idea. Every song is gold. Forever. Some people are like that about wicker furniture, fancy oil lamps, chicken ornaments. And this is how I am about my Umbra frames. To me, they are Forever Magnificent. And so are these stacks.

At one side of the Ruiz you will find these tiny little window seats, each with its own electrical outlet, which I find highly weird (go Austin!), charming, and kind of nuts. I have yet to see anyone utilize one (the seats are wooden and look hard) but it is a nice idea if not exactly an inviting execution.

The best part--the only part--is the back wall where all the work desks reside. Oh happy day! There are plenty of desks, everyone gets and outlet, and the view is beautiful, green and shining. Several large bugs have smacked their improbably heavy bodies against the glass which makes me both unnerved (bugz) and dorkily imperious (ha, you cannot get me in my glass and steel spaceship).

Ruiz is a great little library though as I write this, two troublemakers have set up camp right behind me and are chattering away, loudly and without concern about anyone around them. Soooo, maybe I will head out for that movie now...ah! Quote of the Day:

Female Companion: "Shh."

Rude-Ass Male M-Effer: "IF I WANTED TO BE QUIET, I'D GO TO CHURCH."

Bye.

Windsor Park Branch Library, Austin, Texas

I will admit it: The libraries are starting to run together. Truth be told, I am blogging these experiences just as much to solidify my memories as to accomplish anything else. The most stinging part of any journey, vacation, or even quick jaunt off the beaten path is the inability to recall every detail. You remember a lot (and sometimes almost nothing at all) but oftentimes the experience is so compact and packed full of activities, sights, sounds, conversations, feelings, fights...how could you remember anything but the highlight reel? Even when you have pictures, there is only that 2D feeling of flatness. The Grand Canyon is the earth's most awe inspiring feature--there, I've said it, it's Decided--but my pictures of our visit 25 years ago tell me nothing of the day, what we talked about, or how I even felt. I have a sort of muscle memory from the experience--a forever keening to get back there and stand at the edge of it again--but I can't remember details of that part of our trip. Just snippets. Little scraps.

The Windsor Park Branch will stick in my memory because of something I witnessed there. But before I get into that, the library:

According to its website, the library was opened in 2000, and it certainly evokes that era of mall and movie theater embellishment, with not just diagonal roofs and overhangs to and fro, but those bright spots of color on exterior moldings that take me back to late 90s suburbia with all those tiny trees and big, glittery parking lots. But Windsor Park has an interesting twist in store because in the midst of all that late-century, spackled mallage, there sits a lion, lazily contemplating your doom.

Look at this sucker. He will murder your village and chew up your face bones. Look how his leg drops off the side of his perch; he's so relaxed in his casual, malevolent nobility. He's just waiting for you to get a little...bit...closer.

I bet half the kids have nightmares about him and half are delighted to the point of implosion just at the sight of him. He's Good Scary...and if your adrenaline wasn't already pumping at the promise of books, he surely does the trick. The sculpture is called "Reading between the Lions" (natch) and you can read more about the work and his creator, Paul Bond, here. I never even noticed the cub...if anything, it makes him even more frightening.

The interior of the library is more Barnes & Noble than Borders this time around, with dark, walnut stacks and an older, traditional library feel. The chairs were aluminum but comfortable enough, though I was not able to find a place to set up "permanent" digs (outlet). This set me near the center of the library behind the banks of computers.

One detail I absolutely loved because it was so uncalled for was the swooping ceiling feature, best depicted here:

This is like some next level track lighting and I have to admit it was the first truly "weird" thing I've seen in Austin.

As I sat there typing about the previous night's adventures in Existential Crises in Rest Area Bathrooms While Soaking Wet at 2:30 a.m., the conversation of two ladies sitting near me started to disrupt my train of thought. They weren't being rude at all--it was more the tone of the conversation that turned my ear than volume or frequency. Their backs were to me and they were both hunched over a book I could not see. One was reading from the book to the other. They were both learning something from this book, but it wasn't clear until the Reader said, "This is the kind of cancer you have."

The Reader was a white woman in her 30s, the Listener was a black woman in her 50s. They clearly knew each other but I couldn't guess in what capacity. They had a gentle, friendly rapport, pinpointed with laughter and leaning closer together when something struck them as funny. It was clear that the Listener had just been diagnosed and they had come to the library to understand what was happening to her. Breast cancer, and it had spread to her lymph nodes.

The Reader would get lost in the learning, exclaiming at some new thing she'd never known, then would catch herself and say, "I'm sorry." It was a conversation punctuated with "I'm sorry" again and again. While I continued to write--years of writing through math class, history class, noisy "study" halls makes this possible--I was floored by the gravity of what was going on just feet from me. I did my damnedest to mind my business, but even after I left, my mind would circle back and circle back again.

When you are a smoker and a drinker--especially an abuser--you become familiar with the I Probably Have Cancer game. I've played this game since my early 20s, especially because of the smoking, and have only in the past couple of years finally left it behind. When it is real for someone? Even someone you do not know? It's piercing, and cuts through all the garbage (I was feeling whiny about Austin traffic and locked that shit up right then and there). But I was also stricken by the Reader. I've never been very good at empathy. I can feel it, sometimes too hard, but when it tries to come out of my face it's like watching a giraffe fall down a flight of stairs. It's tragic, and ugly-funny, and you just wish it had never happened so you don't have to think about it. I have actually studied how to behave when someone's loved one has died. What exactly do I say? How should I hold my face? Should I stand in the corner or just go put myself in the dumpster now since it is where I should live full time anyway?

It was overwhelming to see these women take this information, something that would leave most crying in a corner, go to the library, and seek to understand it better together. Extraordinary. Let's all send our prayers and good wishes to the Listener and hope that she gets the treatment she needs.

Leaving Dallas/Ft. Worth, Weatherford to Bell County Safety Area (164 mi.)

After I finished my visit to Lochwood, I felt like rambling around so I headed over to the Fort Worth Herd to check out the cattle drive. My friend Burke suggested it, probably because he knows I'd flip out over the cows. He wasn't wrong.

I had a snack at one of the establishments within Stockyards Station--a place called Riscky's Barbeque whose very name was begging for a bad time, but I would attribute what was off about the dish more to my late arrival than anything. My waitress was nice and the cook even asked how it was, so I lied and said Great! because it was a small thing, off hours, and I just wasn't feeling like a pill.

Patron!

I didn't stay to watch the herd actually drive from one place to another because I got to meet Patrón, a nice gentleman with long horns and a polite disposition whose entire job was to stand there while people paid $5 to sit on his back and take a picture. The young cowboy in charge of Patrón told me all about him, from the crusty, raised scar on his hiney (a bad brand from the original owner) to just how spoiled rotten Patrón was these days, eating good food, hanging out (the shifts are 2 hours max), getting full veterinary care, and of course getting cooed at all day long by weirdos like me. I thanked the cowboy for answering all of my questions (Patrón is 15, Patrón is the oldest in the lot, Patrón is not named for alcohol, he is named for the real meaning of the word which is The Boss) then asked him about the grackles because I figured at this point he knew everything. He confirmed that they were indeed crazy by nature, but were particularly whackadoodle in March because it is Mating Season (sound the horns! the incredibly loud, annoying horns!). That is what that chicka chicka coconut dance was all about. Seductionnnn (cue Barry White, chicka chicka coconut).

I decided it would be wrong not to visit Burke's town--Weatherford--since it was fairly close and would take me no time to get there. The fun thing about New York is how everyone seems to be from somewhere else, though it is more likely you will meet someone from Jersey than Weatherford or Wichita. Burke and I bonded over our Central/Southern connections, as there are so many similarities. But still, your hometown is always so different when seen through someone else's eyes. Hell, even people from the same place have different perceptions of that place, even though the landmarks are all the same (or close). My first AirBNB host was from Wichita, perhaps a generation older than me, and had very different stories from Wichita, primarily because he was a South sider while I was from Riverside. We could speak on things most people knew from Wichita, e.g. the South side hosted the unforgettable Joyland, with its scary, swaying coaster, and a possessed clown named Louie playing a Wurlitzer organ welcoming terrified children through the gates. But he referenced things I'd never heard of and streets that were unfamiliar, almost to a point where it seemed we couldn't be talking about the same town, until we'd stumble into another shared memory again.

From my POV, Weatherford was a standard, smallish town in Texas, with an abundance of churches and big trucks. When I texted Burke to let him know I was there, I was parked at the Family Dollar next to a Monster Truck--you know the kind, where the truck is jacked way up and the wheels are hilarious? I noticed a lot of auto shops when I drove through, specifically for detailing, so not grubby but semi fancy, and the Parker County Courthouse, which seemed the center of everything because it has a traffic loop around it, was a beautiful Victorian creature that looked oppressive, haunted, and superfun. Oh to go through the hallways! (Google has one review for this beautiful building--one star, apparently the people within it are ruuuuude, so here's hoping they sweat that and make a change in their hearts, but let's not, you know, hold our breaths).

Weatherford also had kitschy touches along the way (a strangely painted barn, lots of old, rambling Victorians painted to look the part) and it also had SuperTarget and Wal Mart, making it about as standard-issue American as it gets. I had threatened that I would find the Applebee's there, if they had one, and partake in the "local cuisine," and wouldn't you know it, they have one, and I did! It was an old Applebee's, too, you could smell the ghosts of cigarettes past. I got there early enough to get the cheap lunch special and witnessed a good number of retirees getting their drink on. At the closest table, the man kept sending his martini order back because that is not how they made them in Miami, then wouldn't let his wife have sweet tea because it had sugar in it. It was time to leave Weatherford.

It seemed like a town with potential, but as Burke says, so much has changed since we were young. Maybe it does now. I know Wichita is certainly different than the place I grew up.

I stayed in my car at the Bell County Rest Area, feeling much more confident than the first time around. However, the place was different, much more out in the open with no tree barrier between the rest stop and the highway, and there were a lot of very bright lights to try to block out. I did finally get settled in and situated, but noticed a lot of big rigs coming into the car side of the facility, which I gathered happens fairly often after everything I read about forced rest and increased trucking in general. I also thought it might be due to the fact that a big storm was coming, but that was just a guess. I fell asleep around 10, then was rudely awakened around 2:30 by thunder and the first smatterings of rain, I made a quick escape for the bathrooms (since by then it was necessary) and just as I was reaching the door, it started pouring.

The Bell County rest areas are just as nice as Navarro's, but I gotta tell you, there's some soul searching that goes on when you are drenched in a cold bathroom, shivering and staring at your own red eyes in the reflection at 2:30 in the morning. Like, who are you? Why are you here? Why did you dye your hair like that? Stop staring at me.

When the rain subsided I ran for the car. I'd had to close the windows so the interior was fast becoming some sort of cold steambox and I wondered if air was coming in (of course it was) and would I die (of course not) because it was 2:45 at that point and I was so tired, but the storm was wide awake and about to start hollering. As I tried to make myself go to sleep, the rain thundered against the roof of the car and lightning flashed on all sides. I was both cold and hot, covering up with a sheet only to kick it off minutes later. Finally, my tiredness took the reigns and I started to drift and relax a bit, eventually I got cold enough to need the big blanket (!) but once wrapped up, I cocooned into sleep for the rest of the night.

Can't wait to do it all over again!!

Spicewood Springs Branch, Austin, Texas

Back when our academic imprint was located in the Flatiron building, I used to delight in the grumpy old building's little quirks. The Flatiron's specialness ran the gamut from weird (the shape of the building lent to some awkward and tortured office configurations) to whimsical (the defunct mail chutes, the hidden architectural details we would spy when the drop ceilings were removed for some-odd maintenance). My absolute favorite tic was how the building behaved on windy days. It didn't rock--it's a sturdy little skyscraper that rests like an old anvil parting the riverflow of traffic between 5th avenue and Broadway). But it did complain with a sort of creaking and groaning most commonly associated with large ships rolling on temperamental waters. It would even take on a sort of cadence, as though under an undulating power, and you could almost imagine the Flatiron was a ship gently rocking down Broadway toward Soho, Chinatown, Battery Park, where it would finally break free into the bay and become the galleon it was always meant to be.

One of the meeting rooms even has an old New Yorker cartoon posted where the Flatiron is depicted as a ship, and I always wondered if the cartoonist ever actually heard the building from this inside on a windy day. I couldn't find the cartoon in question (I am almost positive it was a New Yorker cover), but I did see that the Flatiron was featured as an icebreaker ship in a much more recent edition (2015). As the cartoonist says, it "yearns to be drawn as a ship." If only they knew! 

I walked in, took a brief tour, and a set up shop at the Spicewood Branch library in Austin, Texas, as soon as it opened this morning at 10 a.m. I am not sure if it is the wind, the waking air conditioning system, or some other cause, but it has a similar creak and groan quirk, though it lacks the consistency of sound that suggests a ship. It is more like the library has been rustled from its slumber and is stretching its long frame to prepare for the day. It is easy to think of a library as a living thing, housing so much human knowledge, imagination, and memory. The sounds have since ceased, securing the illusion of a waking giant, now fully up and operational, all clicks and tics since settled.

When I first arrived, I made a quick round of the place to get a sense of its layout. I immediately found the kids and teens sections (they have their own sitting areas as well as stacks) and loved that they'd decorated with large stuffed animals on top of each row of books, my favorite of which was the line of penguin sentries all on watch, no doubt for shenanigans. I noticed this decorating trend at one of the Houston branches as well (Vinson, I believe) though they put their animals out while I was there (afternoonish) and a bit haphazardly. It is a sweet touch, and a far cry from the children's section of the libraries from my childhood (here is your section, here is your table, look it is small just for you, now sit down be quiet do not tear the books do not lick the books). I like the inclination of catering to the client--it's probably a softening of our culture toward children in general (no more tyrants hissing behind a desk), but I think it is good change, regardless of the losses. When your clientele is a drooling, diapered maniac hopped up on juice and youth, you're going to see some damage.

As with the other modern libraries I've visited, Spicewood has that old-new 50s feel with oblique angles, fresh and dynamic color schemes, and plenty of room to cater to the needs of its community. I like the black stacks in particular (it's a sassy, different take on how a library should look, as though your brother's friend Greg--a Gamer's Gamer--was in charge of the decor and painted it black, much like his soul) and I especially like the Librarian Viewing Area, which could be seen exiting the kid's section and heading toward the water fountains and bathrooms. All the doors say Staff Only, etc., but the walls are windows so you can see them all in their glory, librarianing. 

The Librarian Viewing Area is a delight to me because of how the Anschutz Science Library was set up back at KU. The librarians had their own little den around the corner from where we did the dirty business of stacks maintenance (organizing books to be put on trucks) and circulation. Librarians did not go up there. No no no. They stayed in their area, around the corner, and you've never seen crosser expressions if you went back there, even if you had a reason, because NO KIDS ALLOWED. I would try to charm them out, though, with baked goods (the key lime cheesecake was a smash) and the like, but usually they would just emerge from the corner, divebomb the treat, and retreat back to their fort.

Don't get me wrong--I liked our librarians, what little I knew about them, but ultimately they were unknowable creatures--they did their thing, and their thing was far away from where we worked, even though it was, as I said, just around the corner. If part of the workstudy experience was to absorb some knowledge by association, what we managed to pick up was second, second hand. So I love Spicewood's viewing arena--you can't escape, librarians! We see you dewey decimaling and perpetuating the government docs. And it is great. 

While the chairs are hard, they are weirdly still comfortable, and I love where my little workstation is situated. I am looking at another part of the library (a reading alcove) that sits closest to the trees. It is a lovely area and I suspect you could lose hours here before you realized it. Since last night was a long night (more on that later), I may make a short trip of it, but I will be sad to leave this library in particular. It's a long haul, do-your-dissertation-here kind of space, creaky bones and all.

I did find one problem: The wifi. I haven't had issues uploading images up until this point. Now that I am at another branch, it seems to be working a bit better, so here's hoping it is not an Austin-thing! 

Lochwood Branch Library, Dallas, Texas

Did you know velociraptors can read?

This is my theory, anyway, as the high pitched squeals and chirps all around me most definitely take me to a Jurassic Park frame of mind. They are very tiny velociraptors, and may be little human tykes, playing hide and seek in the stacks and kicking up the dickens, but we'll never really know until they round the corner.

In contrast to the efficient Shamblee branch I visited yesterday in Fort Worth, the Lochwood Branch Library in Dallas is massive. Not quite as massive as Jonsson, with its 8 eeyoric floors, but there is plenty of space to set up shop either at desks or easy chairs, and there is a kind abundance of outlets--beautiful, wonderful outlets teeming with electricity! Thank God for the public library system.

Lochwood has an interesting "curled streamers of paper" theme going on both in the library main and the foyer. It also has very cool, contemporary furniture to offset the simple, metal shelving used for the stacks. The rambling layout is perfect place to set up camp for writing, reading, or just daydreaming, and my particular space has a beautiful view of trees and a quiet neighborhood.

I interacted with the solo front desk staffer only briefly but it made me smile (internally, only on the inside I swear) because she asked "Can I help you" in the way people do when the last thing they have time for is helping you. The library had just opened that minute, and having worked, well, anywhere before, I understood her trepidation completely. I have used that same tone when an employee darkened my office doorway at 9:01. Like, I will help you (OF COURSE) but really can't you give me 5 minutes? I've also been the employee brimming with questions, so you know, it is what it is? I was happy to tell the staffer no thanks, because I'd really just been leaning in toward the desk to read the sign and make sure I could bring my venti iced coffee in with me. Yes, I am one of those. But I always clean up the water ring when I leave!

Getting to Lochwood this morning was an easy, leisurely buggy ride through the country compared to yesterday's Gauntlet of Grilles, Terror Track, Highway to Hell when I made my way from Shamblee in Fort Worth to the AirBNB in North Dallas (Princeton, right on Levon Lake--Kansans would find it very familiar, think El Dorado lake, but much bigger). I mentioned earlier that I thought Dallas drivers were very aggressive, and my opinion on this has not changed for the better. If Wichita's motto is "You won't hit me," Dallas's might as well be, "If I fits, I sits." I like to leave space in front of me in case, you know, someone jams the breaks and I need extra time to react, but the citizens of Dallas seem to find this concept amusing, if not downright unChristian. There are massive amounts of highway construction going on between Dallas and Fort Worth, so through each highway exchange I traveled there were snarls of slow moving or stopped vehicles, then it would open up a bit so we could all race to the next jam. Whether we were crawling or speeding, cars moved into spaces in front and back of me that only just fit. And I saw one woman enter and exit the HOV lane (driving over the barriers meant to stop this) without hesitation or, I'm betting, remorse. It took 2 hours to go 66 miles, and it made me grateful that the next part of my trip will be, more or less, far more rural.

When I Googled the mileage from yesterday, I noticed one thing on the map I hadn't even considered looking up until just now...Southfork Ranch. You know, from the show Dallas? Ellie Mae, JR, Bobby, Sue Ellen?! If you hear a loud thunking noise, it's just me slamming my head on this desk. Because it was a mere 10 minutes from where I stayed last night. I could have swung by. I could have seen the ranch. But nope, not doing that horror show again, even if it is the middle of the day and probably won't be that bad. Just nope. I'll head West instead, in search of cows. Nice cows, I hope, and probably calm cows since the tiny, humanoid velociraptors will likely be running in circles around the stockades.

Ella Mae Shamblee Branch, Fort Worth, Texas

After my misadventures in downtown Dallas, I took a drive over to the twin city of Fort Worth to check out the Ella Mae Shamblee Library, located just off the highway. This handsome little branch was a far cry from the J. Erik Jonsson, with cheerful colors and a dynamic layout. My favorite part of the architecture as a whole was the flying, winged roof/awnings soaring over the front door. The metal and glass composition remind me of those funky old gas stations from the 50s,

The extensive DVD selection suggests they do a brisk business loaning out movies, and I was witness to a steady stream of patrons perusing that section throughout the day. As it is a very small library,  there were not many spaces to set up camp, but I was able to find one empty table that afforded me a view of my car through this nifty little porthole window.

Once 3 pm rolled around, the kids started tumbling in, most of the time with moms in tow. There was a story hour (a man came around gathering up any stragglers so they wouldn't miss it) and from what I saw, a great deal of resources were dedicated to children, learning, and art. One particular little girl (I"m guessing 7, but I am not good at this game) came in with both of her parents. The pop set up shop in the comfy chairs in front of my desk, scanning through different periodicals, while the mom and girl picked out DVDs and books to check out. Rejoining pop in the easy chair section, the little girl was breathless and trilling with excitement, holding a clutch of books to her chest and chattering a mile a minute to her mom, who sat with her to read one book aloud.

As I am writing this a day later, it's taking every stitch of my self control to keep it together. Gaah, idiot cryingface STAWP. But really, what book lover wouldn't feel something? I've spent my life surrounded by books, finding solace in the stacks, wrapping up in that old, spicy smell of aging paper and glue. My mother had a huge number of books in our house--all sci fi and fantasy and, of course, Shogun--and I spent many hours in the various school libraries and aforementioned main branch in Wichita during my youth. After undergrad, where my workstudy job was always in libraries, I worked for 4 and a half years as the District Manager's assistant at Barnes and Noble in Kansas City. After that, I worked in production for an academic press for over 15 years. Books, books, books--my life is a collection of books.

I'll never be able to adequately express what it means to see little kids piling into the library, arms soon overflowing with books, eyes lit up and turbo charged to read until their little heads are stuffed full of new places, new people, new adventures. It means the world to me. And after a complicated life in the company of books, this tour of the south/sw/west US is a balm. I'm even feeling a little turbo charged myself.

J. Erik Jonsson Central Library, Dallas, Texas

One of the blogs I follow on Tumblr is called Architecture of Doom and honestly everyone should follow it because OMG, so much architecture, all of it Doooooom. Lots of cement, stark contours, and a gloomy sense of danger in every nook and spooky cranny. When I was researching libraries to visit during my tour, the J. Erik Jonsson Central Library would not have made the list, except the pictures featured architecture so doomy and gloomy I just had to add it.

Well, best laid plans, anyway.

I like Dallas and I love the downtown area--something I hope to inspect a little closer tomorrow. There's a spiky building and a building that looks like a butt in bicycle shorts, so clearly the city elders, planners, makers, and shakers are all my kind of nuts and I am down to document their glory. I really didn't get a good look at the J. Erik Jonsson library as I drove past trying to find parking, and once I was ready to go, I didn't really need to. I was pretty much done.


The best/worst part of the library is the subterranean parking garage located below the 8 story structure. The entrance is narrow and steep, so you go from bright sunny brilliance, to shaky, badly lit black in a second's time. Better yet, all the lights are not on. Some are, but not all of them. They are set to light up when the motion detector sees you, so you can see lights going on in the distance, which evokes instant memories of horror movies where the opposite happens and a blonde is running for her life (The Descent, that one with Sarah Michelle Gellar, I think). There's a brightly lit foyer to the elevator bay, and humans in security suits are there to restore some sense of normalcy, but it left me just a little unnerved and er, uncharmed.

The Elevators of Doom (dirty and kicked) took me to the first floor where a blank, bland sadness laid over every square inch of the place. It was as though the Designers of the DMV had a go at putting together this branch and were too uninspired to do anything more than their absolute worst. I took a quick turn around that floor, saw that it was not going to work for me, and headed back to the elevators.

The eighth floor was genealogy--I figured it might at least be semi abandoned and I would be able to find an outlet. It was miles cleaner and brighter than the main floor, and a lot less depressing. I found a cubicle (among rows of cubicles, none occupied) and set about setting up my desk for the day.

Have I mentioned how heavy my bag is when I am lugging around the full compliment of notebooks, phone, wallet, keys, chargers, laptop, etc.? Last night I hurled some stuff out of the bag to make it less awful when going in the mall and later the restaurant, one of which was the charger for my laptop. Which I then covered up with my jacket and left behind in the car. Because YES.

I turned on my laptop, saw I had about 40 minutes, and made a decision: I didn't really want to sit in a cubicle all day anyway, so it was time to cut my losses and head over to Fort Worth to see how one of their local libraries suited my needs (spoiler alert: I've been here all day, writing my little heart out).

On the elevator back down, someone was stopping on the 4th floor, so I decided to have a look just to see if anything would be compelling enough to make me come back up. Nope! But I do believe I found the Weird Floor with the Haunted Painting. Since this was the Fine Arts section of the library, there were listening kiosks with what looked like car CD decks installed. Weirder yet, they had these clear umbrella objects suspended over them, which of course made me think of A Clockwork Orange, which is exactly the sort of thing you should be thinking about in the bowels of the Library of Doom, far from the Elevator of Doom down to the Garage of Doom.

On my way out, I saw a strange painting that I documented at my peril (and now yours, since I am adding it to this blog) because it is probably haunted and will add vinegar to our dreams the farther we take her into our memory banks, every day becoming darker and darker, until we find ourselves alone, probably in a parking lot, and in the wind she whispers heeeyyyy yyallll. And touches your shoulder and then you die. Or just run away. We'll see what happens.

Look, I am sure she was a very nice lady, And she did some nice things for the city and died tragically from a carpet cleaning incident. Her name is Margaret Virginia Jones and she looks just like Eve, don't ya think?

Speaking of "y'all"--I started using it today and can't seem to stop myself. It's a thing I do; it is not about mockery. It is about mimicry, and not the mean sort. I've done it since childhood and still do it semi-consciously today. And let's be real: Kansans are all about the y'all, y'a'll all.

It is not my desire to get smirky or mock the J. Erik Jonsson library. It is, after all, the central, downtown library, so has gotten the most use and abuse from the citizenry of Dallas since it opened its doors in 1982. Unfortunately, it doesn't look like much (if any) money has been put into its upkeep, refurbishment, or modernization except for the mandatory computer installment and internet upgrades. The layout is funky and bones are good--it has the potential to be a phenomenal space for learning and enrichment, if only those makers and shakers would cough up the dough.