A harried, subjective treatise on The Library. More for catharsis than seeking to allot any substantial contribution to the discourse.
I shake my head. It was never going to work. We knew it from the beginning. Back in the day when the common green was where you’d meet ol’ mate Harry. Steed parking getting tight on a Friday night, even with etiquette established and trumpeted, someone would always let their horse deposit all over the show.
Day x98a4io8x9990000 of my captivity:
Grumpily I glance at my neighbour, peripheral vision perfectly practiced. I induce an Attenborough- esque voice to champion my inner dialogue; Humanity struggles, colossally, with common spaces. We protest at length, touting the many virtues of collaboration, harmony, patience and reason that we have developed through the steady march of time. Enlightenment. Progress. Growth. Our fog horns blare through the din. Yet what meets the eye upon examining our perplexing species is at times, contrary to what is professed within coiffed communal conferences. Join me on a journey into the shadowy world of shared space. On the surface ordered calm, every tangible object in its appropriate sphere. However upon closer examination, it is a new world that unfurls, one of chaos, anarchy and frantic discord. Where every slight shift in the seat is a motion of war, every eye dart the bite of a thousand daggers, hurling the colossal magnitude of bitter wrong. A sigh conveys the languish of soul from whence light has irrevocably departed, an eyelash twitch the only sign of billowing dark clouds of murderous rage. In this the first phase of our investigation we find ourselves in a library computer lab. Let’s see what undertones of subliminal mania strike at the heart of this environment.
To Darkly Muse:
I darkly muse. I am thick in the common space of desperation, deadlines and (no) deodorant. I allow myself some moments of snug self pity. Thoughts thump, stumble and bumble around in the shadowy corridors, the light switch seems to be cackling in the corner just out of reach. My neighbour’s elbow lightly strokes mine. I simply stare at the two objects. Elbows. I am almost removed from the situation. I turn my gaping, afflicted eyes to their face. Seeking what I wonder. Recognition? Acknowledgement? I would never hope to see over apology, but something to signal the grievous miscarriage of personal space, a nod to the shrunken but resolute band of brother etiquette.
I wish to entreat my neighbour, to bring him into the discussion; There have been times, oh fellow man, when it seems best that a dictate from above should issue forth demanding regimented individual bubbles or naughty corner time, allowing for prolonged self introspection and assessment. Living with your own thoughts for a prolonged amount of time is an established mechanism of punishment, I guess done in the effort to induce a change of behaviour. How do you think this reflects on your own life and elbow?
Erggh.
I have done all I could. I have expended it all. The music still soars in my ears, my face, eyes, nose, enveloping my person, intermittently lifting my perspective to grandest, terrible heights. The strings mercilessly take me to Frodo and Sam limping, stumbling step after stumbling step, bludgeoned souls. I begin letting myself slowly, incredulously transcend that which is around me, desperation, the struggle, the air dense with aspiration. Yet the animal prowls; Deadline creeps around the room. Sniffing at us all in time. You see backs arch, shoulders shrug, faces manipulated and pulled. The only stick more words, just more words on the page.
Elbow.
To the left of Elbow, Bobby and Gerald are having a yack about their finance report. Elbow’s elbow is brushing mine. Again. I nearly gag. I breathe in short, sharp breathes. Is nothing sacred? Oh good grief. Reason chips in; It is an elbow, desist your fright. I stare at my elbow, weighing its past, its choices. It has never sought communion with another. It has never sought to entertain. It has toed the line, submitted to orthodoxies, made not one joke, invaded no ones computer personal space fortress, never once, caressed.
Your Soundtrack.
Headphones having been discarded in disgust is rewarded by Bobby and Gerald’s tete- a- tete starting to get interesting. I now commission a 5 minute break to pointedly focus on ‘but seriously this is what went down’. ‘What went down’ having been, with ease, overshadowing the symphony that had been on full volume. It is important to know when you are beaten. Your soundtrack has been chosen. Now listen. It’s all art from here on in, more human condition. I threw the towel in and settled back to hear the dramatic oratory of neighbour Bo, Ger and Elbow (Not real names, I don’t know their names, just intimate personal details about their lives). I started to become invested. Wanting to contribute. I started to open my mouth. Oh calamitous venture of a fool. What swift wings of salvation flew majestically in to stay the utterance of sound I will never fathom nor ever fully appropriately appreciate. What escaped was a small mangled gasp of confused shame.
I hurriedly ram the headphones back into my ears. Hours must pass, the sky gradually darkens, only to be broken by the consistent slamming of the door, the oxygen slowly being drained and I’m sure more scandalous revelations from ‘What Went Down’. As time came, tarried and went in that place, eyes glistened and glazed. Deadline crept. Chairs and hearts creaked and quaked under the weight of it all. The rustlings of papers and dreams rose and fell. Hope stayed for a moment only to rack off to Bondi around 4pm.
The varying creatures seemed to lilt and buckle, strive and stumble in their own distinctive ways. Panting and gnawing at productive outcomes. My lows were characterised by a slow, drawly mumble, at the safe pitch, just under my breath, talking to the sky, who just knew how to be above it all. Others left with Hope. Some slept. Others staved off what they must do by talking loudly, passionately about what they must do, so they could not do it.
Fellow Man.
Peeking around at all the others that hadn’t yet cracked; who were my fellows? Did I know them at all? What type of men and women were they? Did they go for a little ‘break’ returning two hours later smelling of thai or grass? Did they stroke elbows? Did they swivel and swivel and swivel, swotting at inertia? Physical spurts leaking the tumult of inner angst. I felt obliged to check on Elbow, he was looking grim, I had perceived the Elbow’s advances had become more erratic and listless. There is a season for all things.
I left the El Lib around 7pm. My elbow tingled as I walked home, wondering where one could buy a small hammer.
A
I hope you enjoyed whatever the above turned into! I’d love to hear your stories of hilarious incidents when sharing common spaces with others, feel free to email me here: butforthisbriefreprieve@gmail.com
but for this brief reprieve, 