willson9a

Stained Glass Murals; Willson's Journal 9

[Editor’s note: The Coast extends from the Centennial River all the way north to the Aca Nada border. The unofficial provinces or regions that touch on the ocean are known as The South, Central, The Bay, North, Way North, and Rain North. Willson’s home is in The Basin. Besides The Basin, which is in The South, there are large population centers in The Bay and Rain North. The Coast has several good natural harbors along its great length, the largest in The South, The Bay, and in Rain North. There are smaller population centers along the coastal areas and inland, over the mountains to the Great Agricultural Valley, a separate province commonly called Ag Valley. The capital city for all this area is called Hopeful and is located inland and north in Ag Valley. The legislators there work to keep all regions of The Coast supplied with water and roads and otherwise try not to give them any cause to want to leave and form their own state. There well might be reasons to describe some of these regions in more detail as Willson’s narrative continues.]

I am back home at last in The Basin. Well, really in Foothill. In my modest place, but it is in Foothill. I spend my time at one of my favorite places, the Library in Foothill. A large renowned Library. And now I am remembering down my adventures since.

[The Basin is commonly called the basin, a geographical area not a political entity. It is enclosed either by mountains, the Black Mountains, and the desert out to the east. The rest borders on the Large Ocean, which has world-famous beaches. Most, about 80%, of the population live in the major city called Greater. The Basin is one of the Nation’s major population centers with industries besides motion pictures. There are large well-known universities and colleges. Transcriptions recovered about this area include the local story of how the rest of the Nation, and some countries in Old World, would provide passage to The Basin for those in their populations thought unfit or to be not the right kind of person. This was said to have been back in unspecified “old days”. The histories think it unlikely that this encouraged migration ever happened, at least on any significant level. But it remains a part of the local folklore and a convenient way to understand things people do there. Moreover, other than a good natural harbor, no other narrative we have examined has ever offered any other explanation why there is a city here at all and why it had grown so big. The existences of the two other large populated centers on The Coast are more easily explained.]

What it would be to spend all my days in this Library building, the long reading room with the high ceilings, wood-paneled walls, stained glass window, large colorful wall tapestries, rose colored lamps hanging from the ceiling, and the long row of large polished wooden reading tables, all with those lamps with the green glass shades. I would be among the best thoughts in history arranged in all the books here. Yes here to have a life of philosophical contemplation. Like I often wonder if our language is missing some necessary words. I think this happens often. I could then do nothing other than develop my dictionary, Willson’s Dictionary of Words our Language Needs but Doesn’t Have Yet. My subtitle would be And You can Help! I would tell the stuff we need a word for and someone would come up with it. That would make my fortune. Well anyway, no time for that now but I will remember examples of some of these as I find them. Maybe sometime, a project for the future.

[Foothill is a small but world-famous city next to the Black Mountains. There is the very large National Research Center that does very complex things including making devices that go out into space. And in addition conducts original cutting edge research is most all scientific and technical fields. The city also has several high quality colleges including Institute and various cultural institutions. This is what we understand from what we have been able to translate so far. Editors.]

I said earlier I had to find a career. At least a job. The Library is also where I start to find opportunities. As an Engineer I could have a career at National Research Center; I went to school to do that but it can wait. I am not ready yet. To be trapped by “golden handcuffs”. Or at least “gold-plated”. And projects that take all the time anyone has. In the meantime I will be more careful than I was several months ago at the ‘campus.’ I want to learn about all possible opportunities. Places I can try and then leave. I will look at the jobs, including those that are part of the ‘New Service Economy.’ I went to one place already yesterday in a small office. The company was called “Foes Solutions”. They wanted a representative to visit social clubs, commissions, neighborhood groups, business groups, and the like in Foothill and the nearby areas. As the Manager explained to me “Foes supplies Foes”, as in “Foes object to City Hall changes” “Foes unite against bridge reconstruction.” He further explained “we supply the foes. When you read newspaper reports like ‘Foes unite against hotel reconstruction, ‘Foes voice objection…’, “Foes fight against…’, ‘Foes object to…’. Who are these foes? Where do you get foes when you need them? That is where we come in”. He added that their service also supplies “some”. As in “Some object to new highway”. And there are also such terms as “ire”, then there is “decry.” “We do them also.” Your Willson got the giggles and had to leave that interview
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And so there is no such a thing as unimportant work. Work by definition can’t be unimportant. I agree. But maybe there should be another word other than work for some of the things people seem to be able to do for money. There; that is a start for my Dictionary. The Library is also a good place to read up on the latest news about technical developments. There is a new ‘personal hover disk’ coming on the market, “another development made possible by an original project at The National Research Center.” The disk is round, about two feet in diameter and carries you along about a foot off the ground. The possibilities for military use, in industry, and sports and recreation seem unlimited. Units for sale to the general public will be set for very slow speeds only. For safety reasons. I look up at the long row of polished wooden tables with the green glass lamps, the rose colored lamps hanging from the ceiling, all very peaceful and soothing. I look down the row of tables and can see almost to the hazy end of the great hall. It is very peaceful and soothing. No noise at all. In the distance I see a large figure appear. It seems to be moving slowly about a foot above the polished floor. As it moves slowly towards me I make out a large light-colored rabbit on a hover disk. The rabbit is holding a small notebook up close to its face looking side to side, without turning her head, rapidly writing into the notebook. It is a woman rabbit with blond hair with shiny barrettes at her temples. No not a rabbit now, a real woman. Coming my way closer with the notebook. What did I do wrong this time? My head sharply hits my wrist. I pull up quickly shaking my head from side to side. I have startled the others seated nearby. My vision clears and I see a pleasant young woman waking on by holding a notebook to her side, paying me no attention. I need to get outside for some air to stay awake.

This evening I am taking some more time off to go to a gathering of writers. It is a support group I understand, maybe congratulating someone who has been successful in getting published. Last week a young woman sitting close to me at one of the Library tables invited me to attend because she saw me updating my journal. (And I told her about my Math Guide of course.) She said the writers in the group would be interested on how I keep my journal. (They don’t want to know about my Math Guide.)

The group uses one of the meeting rooms in the Library. I am a little early. There is a younger man over at a table at the side of the room. He has a stack of what looks like pamphlets. I take one and find a crudely-done self-published magazine called The Axe and the Dead Horse; a Journal of the Usual. The man is named Reuben he says and he edits and publishes a magazine of original writings that are not about original stuff. The motto he says is ‘You can read about it again here.’ No one else in the room shows interest in the journal. After a few more minutes the women who invited me calls the meeting to order. She introduces me and asks me to take a few minutes to tell how I keep my journal.

I begin by emphasizing the importance of being a reliable narrator. How I write down what I see, what I hear others say, and what I conclude from it all. And then later I tell how I go over what I have written to be sure I am accurate, and so on. The audience seems impatient. Suddenly they interrupt me with questions. “Is it like a diary that I keep to myself?” “How do I keep it secret?” “Where do I hide the completed notebooks?” I don’t have any answers. When I add I just hope to write a narrative that might someday be of interest to others there are audible gasps. They quickly lose interest in me. They are paying me no attention now as I thank them and move to the side of the room over next to Reuben. It turns out that the gathering was to console a writer because of the trauma of almost getting published. A young man in tears tells how he just avoided at the last minute having the public see his writings. I then realize that this is a group of writers who meet to give advice and support to each other on how not to get published. Suddenly there is a terrifying scream. A young woman collapses on the floor. Those around her are attending. She is shrieking “he saw it! He saw it!” She is on her back stomping her feet moving in a circle; her red boots clash. Heels on polished wood floor. Others are pushing chairs out of her way. A young man is standing aside looking embarrassed and ashamed. “It was open on the table” he says. “I thought it would be OK. I just took a quick look!” The woman sobs “it opened accidentally.” Then she demands “how much did you read?” More uncontrolled sobbing. “I didn’t see anything at all” he insists. The woman has retrieved the paper and is helped up off the floor clutching the wrinkled writing to her bosom. She is lead away sobbing by friends who give the young man angry looks as they leave. The room soon empties, except for Reuben and me.

“We do need a beer” Reuben says. I agree and we go to a small pub a few blocks away. “That was intense, but it ended early.” he says, “usually they just exchange their great fears that someone somehow might see their writing. With lots of tears and hugs.” After the first beers arrive he says he attends literary group meetings in the evening and teaches writing part time at the big university most days. I ask which big university and he answers “both.” After the beers come I say that was certainly not a good group to find writers for his magazine. He replies that he goes to meetings of writers to get his magazine known. “I don’t need writers. I write all the articles myself under different names. That makes it easy to be the editor.” I take a drink. I ask about his motto ‘You can read about it again here.’ “I know you record original thoughts and observations in your journal. That is good of course; I admire you for that, but the majority of people only read the usual stuff.” I look at the copy of The Axe I took, articles about the problems with education, dieting advice, that mess back in National Capital, declining standards, hope for the future, and so on. “Yes Willson we believe any axe can get another light grinding, any dead horse…; you see what I mean.” I ask him if he is getting readers. “Little by little.” He looks from side to side and starts another beer. “That is the whole thing.” He lowers his voice “I could have original cutting edge thoughts. My anger isn’t going anywhere. That would get me a small readership quickly but never a large following. My plan is that Axe gets around enough that some national media will mention it. Then I can get some advertising, make some money.” And after looking around again and lowering his voice more he adds “when I have a following I can then slowly slip in some writings with an edge. Sneak up on them. They will learn new things without knowing.” He then says he better get started home, looks at his watch, and takes out a toothbrush and toothpaste. We finish our beers and promise to stay in touch. As we part Reuben says with a big grin “As you come up with more original material be sure not to tell me about it.”

Somewhere in all this evening I think are other needed words for my Dictionary.

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