misfit dinner companion

aka: me, a couple of weeks ago.
I attended the Caldecott/Newbery/Wilder awards banquet, and because a colleague graciously pulled some strings, I landed a seat at the dinner table with important people from a heavyweight imprint in children's book publishing. In the grand scheme of things, I honestly don't know how or why this happened for me, but considering my social skills in such situations, and a number of other factors, it was a bit of a blessing and a curse. Maybe the universe decided to all at once cash in a chunk each of my good and bad karma. Maybe someone up there likes to see me squirm.

Factors that did me in:
My career path is apparently either too enigmatic or unorthodox to entertain.
I suck at small talk and BS. (These are useful skills that I somehow cannot master.)
I know about children's literature, but the bulk of this knowledge is somewhat dated.
The seating arrangement was unfortunate.

For your entertainment, I will provide some of the lowlights of the evening.

Conversation with important publishing person (IPP)--the one whose strings were pulled:
IPP: So when did you know you wanted to be a children's librarian?
Me: [Long pause. How to spin? How to spin?!?] Well, the job I have now involves working with children and I enjoy it. It also has a lot to do with outreach which I really love. Before this job I worked with people in correctional facilities, and that was pretty interesting, too.
IPP: [Long pause coupled with blank expression.] But when did you know you wanted to be a children's librarian?
Me: I guess I'm interested in a lot of things, and don't see myself solely as a children's librarian.
IPP: ...
Me: [Losing ground...think of something!] I do enjoy my work, though, and I think that children's brain development is fascinating--especially how it ties in with early literacy.

I don't believe IPP even responded to that. I can't help but wonder what sort of preface IPP was given about me that she was so dumbfounded by my response to her acute questioning.

Anyway, soon after (mind reeling), I was introduced to an up-and-coming author seated next to IPP...an author I'd never heard of, of course. That conversation dead ended real quick.

My next foray into small talk was with the woman to my right. I scoped out her name tag which listed the imprint name, so I asked what she did for them. She replied, "I'm an author." I then apologized for not knowing...feeling at the same time that this could easily be construed as an insult. She was actually very gracious and continued to converse with me and learned that I hadn't been in this gig long. [I looked her up when I was back at work. She's written over twenty novels for children. I think I’ll check some of those out.]

Another wicked twist was that the one author I did know, whose books I had read, who I'd connected briefly with earlier that day, and who was by far the most chatty and friendly person at the table...was seated the farthest away from me.

Also, for good measure, though I was up close to the stage, I had to turn my back on my dinner companions for 80% of the evening in order to see the speakers. Not good for side conversation.

I don't know that anyone else at the table that evening has given a second thought to my ineptitude, but I left feeling both elated and deflated. A little more of the latter...but the last bits of this are finally shaking off.

It was far from a complete bust; there were highlights. It was incredible just being there. I did go over and talk to the outgoing author during a break and that went really well. She even invited me along to talk to and meet an eccentric editor of a review journal. Also, the brief acceptance speech given by James Marshall's partner was so simple and apt and lovely that I had to jot it down: "Thank you for indulging the triumph of his monumental silliness."

Oh, yeah, and I looked good that night. Every little bit helps.

It's all about cows.

A recent article reminded me of a favorite poem written by my friend, Liz. It's sneaky good and smart and friggin' hilarious. I love the second stanza and, well, just the whole idea of a secret deception by cows, of all beasts. Genius.

Forget what you have heard
of all that's good and evil.
Forget what you learned
in King James...

It's all about cows.
Pretending to be innocuous
casually insisting by the nature
of their inertia that they are content
to chew cud and stare.

Facing in the same direction,
cows have their own Mecca....
stimulate their secret powers
at night--
with a collective concentration
so intense in its destruction
a cow itself will fall to the ground
with the force of one finger.

Cows are the source of depravity,
take over the minds of our children,
cows kill.
Some wear human suits,
pose as civil servants, smile
with their plastic lips closed.

And clandestine buildings
have been searched
to find the severed bodies,
isolated organs, hides...
of traitor cows, informant cows.

And central to their plan
for the final human massacre,
cows do plot to deplete the ozone.

[It's true. And she was wise to this years ago. Thanks for letting me post this, Liz!]

aloft somewhere between DC and home

A herd of lumbering somethings from a foggy other world.

[Still taking pictures from planes. I'm like a kid up there.]

she likes to paint.

I'm not much for people watching. It can be interesting, but I always feel a little guilty about it. Given the choice between that and tree or cloud watching, I'd take the latter two. No contest. Something about their quality of being defined or delineated (can't quite put my finger on the right word...) and fluid all at once, shaped at the wind's whim, calms my soul.

Makes me think of Lao Tzu's words (don't ask which translation) sent to me by Dr. Juan:

By yielding...
overcome.
By bending...
remain straight.
Softness overcomes hardness.
The formless is greater than form.




I stumbled on Caitlin Schwerin's web page a short while back and instantly felt like she captured that quality and conveyed the same sensation. Like she says, "If you think trees don't dance. Well, you're wrong."

I wrote and asked her if I could post a few of her pieces here and she agreed (Thanks, Caitlin!). It ended up being more than a few, but it was hard enough narrowing it to these. Take a tour of her work. She does much more than trees, clouds, and openness, and does it well.

yay or nay?

[Most of this was copied, with permission, from the Snap Shots site. Saved myself some verbiage.]

I just installed a nice little tool on this site called Snap Shots that enhances links with visual previews of the destination site, excerpts of Wikipedia articles and IMDb profiles, inline videos, MP3s, stock charts and more.

Sometimes Snap Shots bring you the information you need, without your having to leave the site, while other times it lets you “look ahead,” before deciding if you want to follow a link or not.

Should you decide this is not for you, just click “Disable” in the upper right corner of the Snap Shots bubble and opt-out.

Let me know if it aggravates. I find it easier on the download for us dial-up dinosaurs.

love conspicuous

My dad is a man of many, many words, but each has purpose.

For whatever the quest, whatever the impasse he has a suggestion or anecdote at the ready. He'll tell you if he thinks there's a better way. At the same time, he leaves it at that. Whatever path you take is yours, and he's with you whatever the outcome.

Because of him, I know that it is possible for a man not only to feel and to care, but also to express this unabashedly. He wears his heart on his sleeve, his face, his whole semblance.

He is not much for pretense. He can smell that stink from a mile away; can hear the hollow ring. Perhaps it is because he is hard wired to feel things intimately, intensely, and to reflect these feelings just as surely. He leaves no doubt. You always know where you stand, and where he stands: an honest and sure-footed place hard to come by elsewhere in life.

Here's wishing that I could be sitting with you now, dad, sharing words over coffee, fried eggs, hash browns, bacon, and toast...rye, of course.

(brief) ode on a ball of Belizean soil

Thou morsel pluck'd from cool earthen bed,

Amidst the brown, orange, and yellow strata.
By some childlike wonder her hands were led--
More this than donnish quest for data.
What tropic biota slumber within thy shape
Rolled to rough form 'twixt pale, muddied palms?
What dessicated nutriment waits still to dissolve
From hardened sphere to foreign, temp'rate soilscape?
Life was not quash'd for souvenir taken without qualm,

For Earth's embrace knows no bounds and mighty worm absolves.

poor performance

Overheard while eating a solo lunch at a crowded little sushi place. The fact that I know very little about sports and almost blew pop out my nose makes this even better.

Guy#1 is in his late 30s/early 40s. Guy#2 is in his early 60s. They have been discussing the poor performance of a coworker. We'll call the coworker "Chuck". Guy#2 seems a pompous know-it-all; Guy#1 seems to be tolerating him. Barely.

Guy#1: Let's just say that Chuck's chances of doing well are about as good as the Timberwolves winning the Stanley Cup.
Guy#2: [after a considerable pause] I thought for a second you were going to say "about as good as the Timberwolves winning the NBA Championship." They may not have gotten there this year, but it could happen next season.
Guy#1: Ok, would you like me to change my qualifier? Chuck's chances of doing well are about as good as the Timberwolves winning the Stanley Cup in 2008.
Guy#2: ...