Up till the end of the 19th century, the word "wonderful" had real meaning. It was about being taken by surprise, finding yourself gobsmacked in the middle of the village market, or wherever. In literature, you'd usually see it in the most pedestrian, lytotic context: "It is not wonderful that . . . [something something something]" meaning "It's no surprise that [whatever] is true," however surprising [whatever] might seem. Wonder was the occasion for real surprise, back then. It was a thrill.
So in that sense, today was wonder-full. The library was a laugh a minute, from the 7-month-old with the full diapers who knocked over a whole shelf of DVDs in the children's room in the process of taking his first steps!--his mama wept while I scooped up Barney, the Muppets, and Thomas the Train--to the priest with a pickup truck full of used books from Our Lady of Soledad church library (alas, all in English!)--to the wacko (?) squillionaire benefactor who strode into the circulation workroom to proclaim that he has just moved house, he has 5000+ books, and he needs somebody to organize and catalogue them.
All the workroom women fell silent, then turned to me. Some even gestured in my direction. I was so busy falling all over myself getting to this opportunity that I literally did fall all over myself: I heard him out of the corner of my ear as I was shelving videos, spun around, lurched in his direction, and tripped over a book cart. "Who is this?" Daddy Warbucks wondered aloud, watching them help me up. "Ask her," said my supervisor.
He took me aside. We went into the computer room. We shut the door. He started talking.
Twenty minutes later, he was still talking--lecturing me on fundamental history, metaphysics and philosophy while I squirmed and rolled my eyes, wishing I'd never let on who I am (or used to be), even a little bit. He wasn't stupid, just so desperate to be heard that all his social skills collapsed at once. And he had a bad case of retro gender bias: "My ex was a flight attendant, gorgeous, but her nose was a little . . . um, funny," to which I responded, "Oh picky picky!"
My supervisor strolled by, fluttered her fingers and made a little haha face at me through the glass. Eventually, after telling our "benefactor" I would be glad to organize and catalogue his library for $80/hour, I managed to extricate myself.
Back in the workroom, I splattered, "Who IS that guy? What was THAT all about?" And all my co-workers laughed (but not meanly). "We just pass him around, from one to the next, whenever he comes in." "Oh--so he's some kind of initiation ritual? Am I being hazed, here?" They found this hilarious. As I hoped.
A few minutes later, in the staff room, I enjoyed a cup of tea and some really gross Ralph's birthday cake while being told by the retired thoracic surgeon who puts the labels on the new books that he is 94 . Collapsing in laughter was possibly not the appropriate response, but I couldn't help it because he seems barely 75, if that.
Knock on the door: benefactor again, book in hand. "I bought this for you"--from the Friends' book sale, for 50 cents--"so please just read it even though it seems like whatever it seems like to you, OK, will you?"
I don't even look at it. I seethe. I hiss, "Why do you assume my mind is closed because I'm educated? Do you see the flawed logic, here?"
"No! I'm projecting!" he proudly announces.
I don't get it, either. But the book is Hugo Prather's Love and Courage. So I have to ask myself whether this bulbous weirdo might actually be some kind of angel.
And a few hours later, I am notified that the week-long seminar I'm scheduled to teach in April has expanded to eight weeks (starting next week) of splashing around in Shakespeare with 15 fine-arts students, asking ourselves, "Yeah? So What?" at luxurious leisure and for (compared to anything else I'm doing) lots of money.
So yes, overall, it has been a wonder-full day.
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