By the word of the Lord
the
heavens were made,
and all their host by
the breath of
his mouth.
For he spoke, and it
came to be;
he commanded, and it
stood
forth.
What does it mean that the word is first?
It means two thing: 1) That
the word is damn good. 2) That its
not the best. The Word = Language?
The Word = writing? The Word
= the will of God? Does it then
follow that Language, writing and the will of God are all equal?
Maybe. Whatever it is, the
Word is responsible for our existence. So
it is damn good. BUT, the Word came
from God, (Why did god need a middle man?)
A step removed. There is
something more powerful, more beautiful, better than the Word. It is the Word's source - God.
(It is possible I suppose for a product of the Source be more powerful,
beautiful, and better that the Source itself, but its unlikely)
So it is not the best.
But what to do? Is it
possible for mankind to cut out the middle man?
Can we reach God directly? Forget
beyond language, what about without
language? Does that mean without
symbols of any kind? Mathematics?
Anyhow, I will use words to tell you my story because that is the only way I can convey it to you – as of now. My story so far that is. It actually begins with Abracadabra.
I can remember it like it was yesterday, like it was today even. It was the morning of the day we were to visit the Library. We were supposed to meet prior to the visit, at noon, in a small café nearby. My plan of sleeping till 11:30 was ruined by the dream-shattering ring of the hotel phone. Professor Wilson’s voice was clear and bright – unlike me, he had obviously had his three cups of pre-dawn coffee. I fumbled around my nightstand for a cigarette, waiting for him to choose one of his two favorite things: repetition or explanation. This morning he chose repetition.
“Abracadabra.” I lit the bent smoke and breathed out slowly.
“If you are waiting for me to ask ‘who is this?’, or ‘do you know what time it is?’, then you’re out of luck. I’d recognize your voice anywhere, anytime – which is 4:27am.”
“I was perhaps hoping for a ‘what do you want?’, or ‘what the hell does that mean?’
“Strike two.” I said, trying to sound annoyed, though my curiosity was certainly growing.
“It saddens me that students no longer show respect for their professors. Where are your manners?”
“Manners? It’s 4:28am….”
“Okay, Daso…meet me at El Dolce café at 9am. I will explain.” I could tell he wanted me to ask: ‘explain what?’ And I wanted to ask. It took all my will power to disappoint him. I heard him speak abracadabra again before the dial tone filled my ear.
A little background is necessary. I was, at the time, a graduate Library and Information Science student at the University of Pittsburgh. I had traveled to the city of Purves with the esteemed Professor Alberto Wilson to represent our University at the annual ULA (Universal Librarian’s Association) meeting. Had I known of the murder and chaos that was to find us there, I surely would stayed home and read The Name of The Rose for my History of the Book class.
Our official duties, bestowed upon us by the University, were to take part in the debates that were to serve as the center piece of the annual meeting. Professor Wilson had been warned from the dean on up, that he had better espouse the university’s point of view – not his own – he was after all serving as a representative, not a free agent. My role at the meeting was not so clear to me. I never could stand great large numbers of librarians gathered in one place. But the Professor has asked me to join him with a glint in his eye, and that meant it wouldn’t be dull. Little did I know.
When I arrived at El Dolce, he was already there - seated at a small table on the patio. His newspaper grew transparent long enough for him to look me up and down. It grew opaque as I sat down. From behind it he spoke:
“Daso, Daso....where have you been?”
“Over the hills and far away....” I waved a waiter over, pulled my deck from my bag, and reached through the holo-paper to grab his lighter. The waiter stood waiting as I lit a smoke and returned the lighter through the paper. He seemed tickled by the holo, but not surprised. It was after all a University town, cultured to the teeth, and a holo-paper that might stop traffic in the backwaters of Pittsburgh was just amusing in Purves. I ordered some coffee and powered up my deck. We sat that way for ten minutes, absorbed in our respective worlds. I knew it couldn’t last long....
“Okay, Daso, I have something to tell you.”
“Go ahead.”
“I have heard a terrible ru
II
– The Letter
“Unfortunately class, that is where the vid ends. Just another example of the shortsightedness of the 21st. century. You see they rushed ahead, storing and creating everything in the digital medium without thinking about preservation. So here we had one of the finest historical films of that era - Narrated by Grant Tures, with Roland Jorgson playing the part of Alberto Wilson, and Riso York, of course, as young Daso – and whoosh....part of it gone. Of course, as you all know from taking preservation with Sandra Buchnal, we have figured out how to preserve digital objects and mediums. You also all should be familiar with the rest of the story, and so thank god there are some letters – written on acid-free paper – that have survived. Tonight, before you head out to the megavids and milk bars, take a look at a some of these letters....”
Master Manguel held between his thick palms, a stack of papers. As Steven filed out, mind on pub fries and stout, he grabbed a packet and stuffed it in his bag. It wasn’t until that evening, settled on the water-couch, two of his four walls turned to the Safari channel, that he remembered the packet of letters. He fetched them from his bag and began....
Dear
Rosa,
All is ruin. And all for what? Over
what? Sex. 1000 years they will laugh at us, hell in 100 years they
will. I will be coming home in a
day’s time. I’m not sure what
exactly has happened here. I am
sure you have heard some sort of version, or versions, of it on the wires.
You mustn’t believe what they say – the Govs or the Alts.
There is no one who knows what really happened except Alberto, and he has
vanished. Let me try and explain
some of what I saw....
It began when we entered the Library of Purves.
At first everything seemed fine. If
you can call the chaos of over 1,500 librarians in one place “fine”. I knew very few people, and so followed the Professor as
he made the rounds. Earlier in the
day he had told me that there was a rumor floating that Yale University’s head
librarian had vanished suddenly from his hotel room.
Apparently the door was locked from the inside.
The window was open, but there was no ledge.
The only option was a 45 story drop – and surely someone would have
noticed that. Or the mess it left behind.
And as we mingled, I caught fragments of conversations and whispers about
the mysterious vanishing act. “Abracadabra”
is what Alberto kept saying to me.
As the crowds began wandering towards the Great Hall across the boulevard
for the opening dinner, the Professor and I found ourselves alone in the immense
red marble unisex bathroom. He
began to tell me that he thought foul play was involved with the librarian’s
disappearance. He would get to the bottom of it he said, as he washed his
hands with a small pink sea-shell soap. Before
I could comment on the situation at hand, one of the stall doors opened and out
stepped Esther Berners-Lee, global scholar, poet, and Head of the Purves
Library. She was supposed to be
giving the opening speech at the dinner. She
approached Professor Wilson, looked me over, then turned to him and spoke:
“Alberto, I fear something terrible has happened here.”
“Yes. But not to fear, we
have with us” and here he turned towards me and gestured “a fine young man
who only entered the library profession because he couldn’t bare to carry the
gun of a detective. With his keen
abilities of informational retrieval, detective work at its finest, he will
assist me at getting to the bottom of this.”
I couldn’t believe the Professor was saying this.
His tone of voice, hackneyed Holmes lines, double glint in the
eyes....god I thought, I was suddenly in a B-movie crime mystery parody of
reality. Ms. Berners-Lee thanked us
both and hurried away.
Steven was entranced. He had heard versions of this story before in Library School, but to read a primary source, a first hand account, this was great. He fetched some cans of fizz and a bowl of snaps, turned his two walls to liteglo, and dove back into the letter.
By
the end of the evening here’s what we had figured out:
The Yale Librarian had been pushed or thrown from the window.
It’s just that someone was there to immediately clean up any trace.
We discovered some bloody leaves in a storm drain below the window, and
an old man in the nearby park told us, with a pint of ol’ Z. to lubricate him,
that he had noticed a sudden flurry of street-cleaners the other night.
The PubWorks Department told us that they take all orders from Town Hall.
So we followed the buck there. Town
Hall told us that they take orders from Mayor Laura.
When we approached Mayor Laura, she claimed that extra street-cleaners
had been sent to the area because she wanted to make sure that all the visiting
librarians experienced a clean and sanitary Purves.
Although
it was obvious to both me and the Professor that the Mayor seemed extremely
nervous, we had no proof, and our stomachs were growling. We returned to the Great Hall just in time to catch the end
of Esther’s speech.
“...that censorship of any kind cannot be tolerated, whether the public
pays the taxes or not. If the Mayor of this fine city feels that there are web-sites
out there that children should not be looking at, that is fine.
I say to Mayor Laura, then don’t let your children see them.
But don’t ask us as librarians to filter, because we don’t do it.
And since I have mentioned The Name
of the Rose and spoken of laughter in that context, I felt I should close
this talk on the two kinds of laughter, and how we as librarians need to be open
to both, with a quote from Milan Kundera. ‘The first time an angel heard the
Devil’s laughter, he was horrified. It
was in the middle of a feast with a lot of people around, and one after the
other they joined in the Devil’s laughter. It was terribly contagious.
The angel was all too aware the laughter was aimed at God and the wonder
of His works. He knew he had to act
fast, but felt weak and defenseless. And
unable to fabricate anything of his own, he simply turned his enemy’s tactics
against him. He opened his mouth
and let out a wobbly, breathy sound in the upper reaches of his vocal register
and endowed it with the opposite meaning. Whereas the Devil’s laughter pointed up the meaningless of
things, the angel’s shout rejoiced in how rationally organized, well
conceived, beautiful, good, and sensible everything on earth was.’”
The assembled librarians began to clap, wine glasses were lifted, cheers
made, and suddenly, from the back of the room, an ear-piercing scream of terror.
******
To Be Continued......
Steve Walden Copyleft 02000