There is a person out there who reads this site who knows that he has gotten exactly what he wished for, and I am well aware that he is glorying in the rightness of his prediction. He posed a question to me, months ago, months and months before the prospect of a library job fell into my lap:
"What would you be like if you had something to believe in? Something in your life that was worth fighting for? I have to believe that you would take that protectiveness you lavish on those you love and turn it toward that thing, and that Amy With A Cause would be a fearsome sight, indeed."
I thought it was funny at the time. Not any more. I won't claim that I woke up one day and realized I had purpose, that I sat up suddenly and it all clicked. It wasn't that way. It was a subtler, gradual thing, of days and degrees, of projects settling into place one at a time until the bigger picture became clear.
* * * * *
It's very simple to state what I do: I'm the webmaster for a library. The overarching why has a more ephemeral answer. Why work in a place of ink and paper in a world that seems ripe for takeover by pixel and byte? Because I think libraries are faced with a choice: change, or die a slow death of irrelevance. In a world where google provides two-second soundbite answers to any misspelled question, why return to a library?
One morning, while we were charting out ideas for where to take the website, I hit on what I believe are the three answers:
There are two types of people working in libraries these days: book-librarians, and cybrarians. I am squarely in the latter category. I believe that neither are wrong, but that a continual book focus will eventually guarantee the obsolescence of libraries. The advent and popularity of the printing press revolutionized how information was disseminated; I can imagine people of centuries ago saying "But why should I look to ink and paper for information when I can just ask someone?" with the same tone of voice that people now ask "But why should I look to a book when I can find my answer online?"
I am focusing on community. My work naturally leads to it. Right now, the website is only one-way communication, but as we expand into two-way communication (blogs, online forums, mailing lists, discussion lists) we have an opportunity to produce not just announcements, but dialogue. There are other places in modern-day life that can provide community, but none of them have the cachet of expertise and knowledge that libraries have; if libraries leverage that combination, they will remain not just relevant but irreplaceable.
* * * * *
See? This is just a blog post. Imagine what I'm like sitting in front of you with a cup of tea. Intense. Frighteningly intense. It's hard to walk away when you know that coming in on Saturday guarantees that the summer reading sites will take signups in a manner that saves the youth librarians a good deal of effort and time. It's hard not to show up for events when you want to hear them for yourself, and you know that sitting at a PR table for thirty minutes might mean that someone finds out that there are other really good events coming up that she just hadn't heard about.
'Hard to walk away' barely sums it up. My workplace is filled with co-workers who simply can't stay away. We grouse about the public-service pay and the desk hours, but the truth remains that every year, the service awards are filled with notes about people who left and came back multiple times, because after the lure of the extra money wore off, the pull of the library brought them home.
While sitting at the PR table before an event a week or two ago, I realized while talking that the person sitting next to me was sitting speechless with that slightly slack jaw that indicated surprise.
"How do you do this?" she asked, pointing to the sign behind me I'd designed earlier in the day. It showed the four authors that we have slated for appearances in the next two months.
"Well, I did that in Adobe Illustrator," I said. "Usually I just ask the author's agent for press photos…"
"Not that. I mean, how do you sell this to people? You make it look so easy. They ask you about authors and you talk about them like you know them: genre, writing style, history."
"It's because I've either read them, or I've talked to people who have, and I've asked them why they like what they've read and why they'd recommend these books to their friends." It really is that easy. Imagine me, the person who has been pushing books on her friends since she was capable of reading, being paid to sit at a table and tell people about something she's been genuinely excited about since the age of three.
* * * * *
Imagine me with passion. Imagine me a little obsessed. Imagine putting someone like me—someone who is a little bit code monkey, a little bit graphic artist, a little bit writer and a little bit PR—in an institution that needs their print, web, and PR pieces to come together in lockstep for both patrons and donors.
Imagine me with tea and purpose, knowing without hesitation or question that at the age of thirty, I was handed the kind of opportunity that many people live their entire lives without ever experiencing.
I will not see this pass me by.
Fearsome, indeed.
]]>For about two weeks now, this quote has been sitting, archived, on my desktop, waiting for me to come back to it. Rather like the movie—Requiem for a Dream—itself.
I can say two things about this movie. One, that it's one of the most brilliant pieces of filmmaking I have ever seen. Two, that while I say that I never, ever want to see it again, that when my friends sit down to watch it, I might consent to watch it again, as well.
But not to watch the film. Instead, to watch the effect the movie has on them.
Renting this movie brought to the forefront something I've noticed in a few movie-rental chains, but never really thought much about. In Madison, which is (as far as government work is concerned) where I live, there are really two options for movie rental stores. Movie Gallery and Hollywood Video are all we get out here.
I noticed the movie was available in Hollywood Video, picked it up, and planned to rent it, and then noticed two words on the cover that made me blanch, flinch, and put the movie back:
"Edited Version."
Since then, I've discovered that Hollywood Video doesn't carry films that garner an NC-17 rating, or choose to take a NR (no rating) in the stead of the dreaded NC-17. On my way home, I drove—out of my way—to Movie Gallery, whose employee confirmed that they carried the original version of the movie, and not the edited version. But, of course, the movie was out on rental. I would have to come back another day.
As I drove home, I became angry about the policy at Hollywood Video—surprising, considering that they're by far the better of the two movie stores.
Why? Because I'm an adult. With that comes responsibility—and rights, which dovetail with it. It's my responsibility to check on the movies that I plan to view, to ensure that I'm not unintentionally renting something that will just horrify or revulse me (one of a few reasons why I won't see "Hannibal").
However, once I'm done with my research, am I not adult enough to watch a movie as Aronofsky intended for it to be seen? I understand that the edited version was made with his consent and approval, but the film is not the same as the version that was intended for release. I understand that the movie is not for children, but I am not a child. I am old enough to, if I decide to, watch images that disturb and frighten me.
I greatly dislike a corporation deciding what I can, and can't, watch. I neither need nor want some faceless corporate decision-maker deciding for me what is appropriate or inappropriate.
So, a few days later, I went back to Movie Gallery, and rented Requiem—the original version. I went home and watched it, alone, in the middle of the day. It was the first movie—ever—that I have had to pause halfway through so that I could go to another room and gulp in some fresh air and quiet sanity before returning to the film.
It is the first movie I've ever seen that put me inside the head of an addict, made me understand why they did why they did—and then pulled away. Up, out of their minds, and then spun the camera around to show me the depravity they put themselves through in order to buy themselves the fleeting peace of the high.
I came away desperate for light, for normality. I fixed myself a glass of milk and sat outside for a few minutes, letting the sunlight pour down on my face while I tried to make sense of what I'd seen and experienced.
Requiem is an experience, in the truest sense of the word. The filmmaking is exquisite, the trick shots creating purpose instead of gimmickry, the acting simply superb. Ellen Burstyn was robbed of an Oscar; I hope that her future career success reflects the incredible risk she took in taking on a role as physically and mentally demanding as the one she accepted in Requiem.
Requiem was released into theatres under a NR (not rated) to avoid the dreaded NC-17, which would have killed its box-office potential. The distribution company, in turn, asked movie theatres to enforce an adults-only policy, which I think was an unorthodox but acceptable way of handling the situation.
Are there noticeable differences between the NR and the R version? Yes, and it's very obvious what was cut. Will I mention what scene? No, I won't—if you really want to know, the information's available out on the web; however, if you plan to see the movie, let me suggest to you that you NOT find out about it beforehand. Requiem is best experienced as the characters experience it—with no foreknowledge of what their lives hold.
I'm grateful that I at least got to see the unrated version—that is, if one can say that they're glad they saw this movie at all. It's memorable like a suckerpunch is memorable.
You're not going to laugh, and you're not going to cry. You're going to walk away from the movie with a knot in your gut and an appreciation for the normalcy of everyday life. You're going to wake up the next morning and thank your deity of choice that you aren't a character in this film. You should see it—once. Once, to understand the terrifying power that filmmakers can wield, and how something so painful, so personal, so gut-wrenching, can be called a masterwork.
Parachutes not allowed.
]]>