Silence is Golden

My illicit affair with libraries came to a hasty halt once Covid found out. I was oscillating between Mullumbimby and Byron. They each had their perks. I am now courting iiNet for their NBN package and working out the longitude and latitude for our new home with a compass app on my phone. I’m waiting for a man called Jesse to call me back and give me the big yep, you are now hooked up and can work from home instead of your car at night after your daughter has gone to bed. I’m mourning the loss of intimacy with my library. Even masked and being told over a loudspeaker every so often to mask up properly (having it dangling provocatively round your neck is a big no no even if it means you can breathe) my library time was reflective and productive. I’ve always had a thing for libraries. They’re quiet and house great banquets of books. Each book is a portal, ushering you into an unknown world that lingers on in dreaming waking reality. Libraries have power points to plug into. And printers. And the internet. Everything is free. Unless you forget you borrowed books and incur fees that eat into your op shopping funds. They have the latest brightly coloured, fruit-cocktail covered releases on stands to catch the punter’s eye as they hustle through. Second-hand rejects can be bought for cents. Librarians have pink hair and make their own masks out of flowery material. Places for adults and children to pause, workshops, author meet and greets, book launches and Storytime. As Mark Gatiss, English actor, screenwriter, director, producer and novelist, said “A library is more than a building. It’s a statement of intent. A shared space. A sanctuary.” I am just as impressed by his output as his quote. I am also torn between the freedom of connecting to the mighty Interweb at home and needing to visit my local library.