Burning Books?

 

I have a lot of stuff.  I have things given as gifts, inherited furniture and hand-me-downs, functioning and broken appliances and gadgets, art and other equipment for hobbies and other pastimes.  I don't like shopping and recycle, repair and reuse as much as I can.  But I am not materialistic, and feel no particular connection to any of these belongings, regardless of whether they were gifts from close family members. I value such gifts no more than the fossils I have collected on beach walks (which does not mean I don't value them - I do.)

I don't think I am sentimental.  I often pore over those questions that are meant to make you really consider your priorities, and give you clues as to the type of person you are. For instance: 'If your house was on fire, and you could only save one thing, what would that be?' You are usually allowed to omit the obvious things (family members, pets etc.) but this has always perplexed me.  Those who would return for a pet, or a photo album, a cherished item belonging to a late relative are deemed more human than those who would return for an expensive or useful item. Few would admit to going back for a laptop or phone (but I understand that has changed recently where teenagers and their phones are concerned, which concerns me deeply).  When I ask myself that question, I struggle with everything about it:  Why is my house on fire?  Why didn’t I put it out?  Where are my family? I don’t have any pets.  Belongings are just things… stuff.  But then I think about my dictionary.

When I was about 12 or 13, I would go to the library, a lot. It was an important haven from school and family where I could lose myself in other worlds. One day, there was a sale of books, and among the well-thumbed volumes were some older books.  One of the books caught my attention.  It was thick, with marbled board covers and a half leather bound spine.  The words Lampriere and the date 1859 were visible in small capitals in gold.  I picked it up and looked at the price.  I looked at the spine again and saw that it was a ‘Classical Dictionary’.  I had no idea what this was, but I liked classical architecture and words, so I looked inside.  I thumbed the pages and the book fell open at NI.  I read the first entry: ‘Nestorius – A Bishop of Constantinople who flourished A.D.431.  He was condemned and degraded from his episcopal dignity for his heretical opinions.’  I was taken aback – What was this?  Who was this person?  What was this language? What was episcopal?  I knew where Constantinople was, thanks to the old song, but the rest was intriguing.  I read on. Nestus, or Nessus – a small river in Thrace…  (Where was Thrace? ) Netum – a town of Sicily, now called Noto, Neuri – a people of Sarmatia (where was Sarmatia?)… Nicaea – a widow of Alexander who married Demetrius…

I was enthralled by the names and places immediately, so I bought the book - using the last few of the tatty pound notes from my pocket money - and took it home.  I followed the references to their logical ends, pulling the threads of history and stories, places, people and events.  Some of them could be tied together, or led to more, connected threads.  Stories and histories began to emerge, piece by piece, name by name.  Within a year or two I had discovered Homer and Virgil, Socrates and Plato and more and widened my reading even more. My vocabulary had probably doubled in size and I had learned an appreciation of Latin and Greek which helped me understand yet more words.  What a find this old dictionary was!

It has sat on my shelf since then, sandwiched between the complete works of Shakespeare and my Aubrey Beardsley Illustrated copy of Thomas Mallory’s Le Morte D’Arthur, to be taken down and carefully thumbed from time to time.  It is very dilapidated now, and I often think I might like to get it mended, but I'm not sure I could bear to entrust it to someone else. 

It struck me that this book might be the one thing I would rescue for my theoretically burning house.  But it would not be sentimentality that would spur me – it is just a book.  But it represents everything about me and the way I see the world - detail, by exquisite detail.  The excitement of finding two snippets that have a common thread, or following enough threads to constitute a story of a battle, an adventure or a tragedy, is laid out within the pages of that book, in much the same way it is within me. To most it is a random collection of defunct facts about irrelevant places and events, but to me, (and hopefully, some others) it was a clue that led to another world; a rich tapestry of magical names and strange language that harks back to ancient times, great deeds and heroes of the intellect and the battlefield.  

No, I probably wouldn’t go back for it. It would be difficult to replace, but I have to believe there are one of two more of them out there…

 

The Lycian Tombs of Dalyan, Turkey

 

 

Karma Police - Addendum

I gave Karma a prod in my last post and bemoaned the consequences, but it turns out my little stash of validity has been looking after itself very well thank you, while my confidence has taken a dive.

Not long after sending my email withdrawing from the application process, I received an email from the prospective employer seeking a meeting to make sure there were no misunderstandings about the nature of the role that might have wrongly influenced my decision.  I considered replying to say I couldn't attend, but remembered another occasion when I had been asked back for a meeting and the outcome had been surprisingly positive.  I had enjoyed much of the experience yesterday, despite the pressure associated with the tasks and interviews - the staff were all lovely and I saw many familiar faces, so I thought I owed an explanation at least.  So I agreed to a meeting.

I don't know quite what I was expecting to hear, but the genuine warmth and understanding with which I was greeted was entirely unexpected, as was the fact that this person had clearly read my application in detail and had understood how my Asperger's actually enhances my ability in many ways.  They also seemed to appreciate my enthusiasm for learning and capacity for retaining factual knowledge, and even recognised it's value, and respected my honesty and openness in talking about my limitations and difficulties.  It also turns out that the hours for this role will allow me to keep up my commitments to a student group I run at my present school, which had been of some concern to me.

I have the weekend to mull things over, but I feel I have been handed a polite and eloquently worded invitation, and I am inclined to accept.

At Glastonbury this year, Karma Police was the last song played in Radiohead's set.  Even after they had left the stage the huge crowd continued to sing chorus after chorus...
"Phew, for a minute there,
I lost myself,
For a minute there,
I lost myself..."

Who am I to judge?

I was recently received a rather unexpected invitation from my old Art Club.  I was asked if I'd like to come along and be judge for their Annual Art Exhibition.  Oh, and by the way, if I could see my way to providing a short workshop on pastel work at a later date, then that would be lovely, too.  I agreed straight away; flattered and surprised, as I always am when someone unexpectedly acknowledges my existence in a positive way...   Of course, once I had sufficient time to really process the request to  judge the artworks, I began to panic:  Questions like "I'm not a professional artist... how am I qualified to judge?"  I was a member here just a year or two back... how am I any better now?" and "I don't know anything about art" all clamoured for the top reason why I should renege on my agreement.

I have a long and illustrious history of agreeing first, considering the repercussions after, and then panicking at an exponential rate at the event draws closer.  It is, I have learnt, an excellent way to experience new, sometimes challenging situations that I would not otherwise attempt.  Sometimes I agree to things that don't benefit me in any way, and have, in the past, agreed to things that have been damaging to me.  It's a bit high-stress, I'll grant you, but if I start thinking about something, then you can forget it.  I should pause, about now, to apologise to my long-suffering husband who has borne the brunt of many such situations and who has always stalwartly seen me through the frantic run-up to such events.

(I should also let you in on the chuckle I'm currently having at my own expense - I just spent 20 minutes looking for a suitable alternative to 'run-up' in several online and hard copy thesauruses, and am now late leaving work.  See what I mean about the thinking?)

I knew I couldn't back out, and I really did want to visit my old club...  I had first joined at the suggestion of psychologists running the post-diagnosis group I attended, with a view to engaging in 'structured socialising', which is much easier than the usual method (which I usually refer to as 'cold calling').  Everyone at the club was pleasant and welcoming, and they made it much easier than I had any right to expect.  I had wanted an opportunity to thank them for this, and here it was...

I wrote a short speech explaining what the club had meant to me, and wrote suitable appropriate generic paragraphs filled with glowing praise for all the various elements of what I considered the fundamentals of quality art (thank goodness for that single year of A level History of Art I completed, and Mr Berger for 'Permanent Red'!), and left gaps for additional information I would fill in when I had seen the exhibition.  I found out the categories for which I was expected to find winners and runners-up.  My intention was to leave as little to do as possible on the night. (Spontaneity is a minefield for me with my slow processing for social interaction... You will not get an honest impression, as you might expect from an NT being spontaneous... you'll just get a carefully rehearsed show - I need notice to be spontaneous!)

On the night, I found the decision-making easy, as expected:  I am nothing if not practical, and my objectivity, and lack of bias goes without question.  I asked my husband to review my choices, simply to make sure I had not inadvertently chosen pictures too similar in style or by the same artist.  I gave my speech, adding comments relevant to the individual works, gave out the prizes, shook hands, finished my wine, and that was it. Done.  And everyone got out alive.

I am patently aware that many of these situations actually pass without incident, and I am equally aware that most of the people around me can see the potential for this clearly.  It pains me to confess that I simply cannot see things from this perspective until after the event.  Then, everyone's' confidence becomes perfectly clear, and I feel terribly foolish.  You'd think I'd learn, wouldn't you? The problem is: I don't.  Because I'm not NT.  No matter how many positive outcomes I have, this never gets any easier. I never become more assured of success, but I do notice one change:  I allow myself to be talked into things that might be good for me that little bit more often.  A small, incremental step, but nevertheless, in the right direction...

Interestingly, the thought of carrying out an hour's workshop in front of 20 people watching my every move and interrogating me on my technique doesn't bother me at all...