So I’ve finally made it to day four of the thirty-day writing challenge I began on March 16, which was just over 39 weeks ago, and technically, I’m really on day three for which the prompt asks what my favorite quote is. I’ll come back to that one. It’ll take me a moment to narrow it down to a list of even 50. Besides, most of them are inspirational and I’m in small mood and do not wish to be encouraged and uplifted at the moment. Maybe later.
Day 1 – Story behind The Qwiet Muse name.
Day 2 – 20 facts about you, really – they are about you, not me.
Anyway, since I’m not completely a quitter, even though I failed the challenge I challenged myself with, now, 275 days later, I’m going to write about my dream job, the prompt for day four.
I’m pretty sure, if you know me or have read more than a post or two here at The Qwiet Muse, my dream job will have something to do with books and words and silence.
Basically, I want to be a writer who runs a library.
Not just any library though. Mine is epic, and a little odd, and entirely awesome. My library is a mind palace, think of the Greek poet Simonides of Ceos or Ciceros, if you’re not familiar with the method of loci, it’s quite interesting, something to look up sometime. If Greek myth and history isn’t your thing, think Sherlock Holmes, I think he called his a mind attic, where he stored information and memories. Doyle used this idea a little differently. Again, something interesting to look up.
This library in my mind is where I remember everything, or where I try to. I remember who I am and seek out what I’ve forgotten, which is unfortunately something I too often do these days, but that’s a tale for another time. In my library the thoughts and names and words I cannot access in my reality await me.
Now, I realize this doesn’t sound like a job so much, but if I could create my library with mortar and brick and wood, I might consider opening the doors to the public. It’s a magical place. Beautiful. I think you’d like it there. Of course, it wouldn’t be open to just anyone, there would have to be some sort of application process to gain entry and perhaps a trial membership type of thing. I guess my job would just be to be there and read and write and remember.
I suppose it would have to be housed in something similar to a Tardis, you know, bigger on the inside since things on the outside are often so very wibbly wobbly, I think it’s safe to say our minds are certainly bigger in the inside, just think of all they hold! It would have to be somewhat of a well kept secret, exclusivity and all, so Tardis technology would come in handy. Perhaps an unassuming garden shed or an old school bus, I’ve not yet given it much thought.
I can try to tell you a small bit about what would be inside though, the way I see it when I lose myself in there.
Close your eyes and imagine . . . Yeah, don’t do that. Duh.
As you read, imagine yourself within a circular room, the ceiling so tall it seems to reach straight into the heavens. Rich mahogany shelves line the entirety of the protective circle of wall surrounding you, each delicately carved with images and scenes from literature and history, stories etched upon every surface.
Staircases spiral between level after level, each one leading to row atop row of books, manuscripts, journals, and notes. Histories written and bound, musical scores dancing along pages, all protected and preserved and waiting to be held in someone’s hands, to be remembered and cherished.
Wrought iron railings swirl upward, suspending works of art above velveteen settees perfectly placed and lit. Below sit writing desks, reference materials fill cabinets, and showcases featuring artifacts and treasured items from literary history glimmer in the glow of the grand fireplace ringing perfect warmth to the entire structure.
It’s not entirely possible for me to accurately describe the atmosphere within this library of mine, you’ll have to imagine that for yourself. Sometimes, I enter into a brightly lit and invigorating space, other times, I find myself in a darkened den of solace and silence. Sometimes there are giant windows overlooking a glorious garden, other times, the walls keep hidden what lay beyond them.
Since it’s mainly my mind palace, I suppose I will tell you . . . sometimes there are fainting goats outside in the garden, and sometimes I ring a bell and giggle as I watch their little legs stiffen. I know. Don’t judge me. Have you seen fainting goats? Oh, and sloths. There will be sloths somewhere as well.
I wish I really could put to page how my mind sees my library, I suppose if you were to join me there, it might look different to you, when you came to visit it would transform to a space that suited you, your personality, your needs. Your memories.
Yeah. It would definitely have to be like a Tardis. I think I’ll hire Tennant to look after the place.
Basically, my dream job is just that, a dream. Real enough to me, but for everything else, words upon a page. Real enough I suppose, I’ve always thought once words were written they were given life in some way.
I really have always wanted to be a librarian though, so . . .
Full disclosure, my mind palace library does not include memories of math I may have learned, I googled my way to mathisfun.com to determine how many days have passed since I copied that darn 30 Day Blog Challenge graphic and decided it was something I could follow through with. Ha! I do not happen to think math is fun. It hurts my brain, but I must say I totally love a site that does number-y stuffs for me!
My heart and my mind are far from me, many, many miles away in Alaska with my sisters and my father. I will never see him again. Even if he somehow woke up, it would only be for a short while, his journey is coming to an end. To be honest, I’m glad of it, for his sake.
There was plenty of evidence, all of it circumstantial though, we needed proof, what we really needed was a confession.
I remember her
This holiday season, I’m not really feeling it, I’m trying, I truly am.
When the postcard arrived, she laughed and tossed it into the junk bin without bothering to read the details, “You are cordially invited to attend . . ” was all she needed to see, being cordially invited to anything was near the bottom on her list of things she enjoyed, right under jumping out of a plane without a parachute; besides, there wasn’t even a return address – which usually meant junk.
The Qwiet Muse 