Reports from a Resident Alien

Recently I've been doing what's odd for me--watching a popular TV show. The show, Angel, is a spinoff from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. If you haven't heard of either of those shows (which is likely enough if you're mostly a TV-avoider like me), it's about a vampire who has a soul (and thus a conscience), working as a detective tracking down demons, vampires, and his daily dose of angst. Of course he has the usual motley crew accompaning him--a gangster, an Englishman, and a girl who spent five years in a cave. (Fred, the girl from the cave, initially acts a lot like an Aspie--and she's a physicist. Mind you, it's a writer's idea; but I wonder if isolation can produce Aspie-like behavior, especially in those who are already intellectually oriented? One member of Wrong Planet is researching feral children... I've checked it out the idea seems to be that there might be a similarity between the behavioral results of autism and extreme isolation. Children who grow up in isolation usually end up with attachment disorder--which shares common features with autism. End digression.)

Angel is one of the TV shows which is available on DVD at the library, which is how I found it. The DVDs are right next to the books on tape; so it wasn't any wonder that I should see how many lovely shows there are to be watched while one is crocheting. Initially it was Star Trek; that was what I watched when I finished my last afghan. Then I found some Nova science specials, and those were great; and then I saw Angel and just had to try it.

Like with Star Trek, I had read novels from the Buffy universe long before I had ever seen even one TV episode; and the plots struck me as a little more drawn out than they needed to be, while the characters were rather interesting, and the rules of the world the writer had created, as always, were the most interesting. It turned out that the TV show solved the slow-plot problem, as an hour-long program passes in half the time it takes to read a book with the same plot information in it, though of course a TV program shows more visual and less logical information

So fifteen squares (out of 36 planned squares) of my current afghan have been finished while I was watching this TV show; the third season, to be precise.

( Spoilers follow for the 3rd season of Angel. )I've been remiss in using my day planner; but the sleep schedule thing is looking up. Over the past two days I've gone to sleep at 2:00 and 2:30 respectively. I may manage 2:30 tonight. My day has also been quite organized; without a job and no responsibilities except caring for a dog and a hamster, I have very little to worry about when it comes to schedule-juggling.

However, I've been accepted to take personal interest classes at a nearby community college, and the addition of schoolwork to this seemingly organized life of mine will probably cause it to come crashing down. I need to organize now, before that has a chance to happen</td></tr></tbody></table></div>

I love libraries. They're quiet, they're organized, and they smell like books.

A library has an aura of calm. In a library, time slows and tension fades. Even chattering children don't seem to shatter the serenity of these lovely places.

Some libraries are close and cramped, with too many books and not enough space. The books overflow, crowded and packed; and the shelves loom overhead and press in to the sides. You feel like you are in an underground vault of ancient knowledge, or perhaps have stumbled into a wizard's repository of forbidden lore. Only one person at a time can be in an aisle; and you have to murmur a quiet "excuse me" to squeeze past another browser. Sometimes the building is old and there is a musty smell in addition to the book smell. Going to one of this sort of library feels as though you are hunting for treasure. Often, you find it.

Then there are newer libraries, with big windows and wide metal shelves, rows of tables and a story corner for the little ones. These libraries seem--even in winter--to exist in a perpetual summer's afternoon, lazy and sunlit. They are places where you want to linger, to drape yourself across a couch, to sit cross-legged on the floor, leaning against a window with your latest find. In the background is the soft clatter of computer keys and the intermittent click-click-click of someone sorting through CDs in their bins. These libraries have whole sections of books on tape and even DVDs of popular movies... I think of these DVDs as lures, drawing in the general public. Once the mind of a DVD-watcher generates the thought, "Hmm... that book looks interesting," then he is hooked, whether he knows it or not.

College libraries are interesting. College libraries are not user-friendly--not because they are disorganized, but because they are not trying to lure in the reluctant reader. College libraries know that, reluctant or not, a college student has to read; and so, while still having the same air of quiet as any library, they are impersonal and just a little pretentious. They have big, complicated books, and only a small fiction section, which you can sometimes find shelved with the Literature. Often you find books shelved by the Library of Congress system, which is interesting because most local libraries use the more familiar but less minutely accurate Dewey Decimal system, and one has to learn both systems to find books easily without wimping out and going to the card catalog. If you are very interested in something, you can usually find in-depth information at a college library that you could never find in a local library, because local libraries are stocked with books that are written for people with only a high school education or even less.

Whenever I go to a new place, one of the first things I do is to search out the local library and to get a card there. I have quite a collection of cards now. Most libraries are organized into systems which use the same card and trade books back and forth among them--systems as small as a county or as big as a state; so each card in my collection can represent more than just one move.

When I was a child, I was known for checking out fifty books at a time and lugging them all out in plastic bags. The librarians saw me coming, and smiled at how many books I had--science-fiction novels, books on cats and physics and psychology, even the occasional (and very forbidden, by a fundamentalist mother) book of fairy stories. Now, I know I can get to the library almost anytime I wish; and I have tempered my hauls of books to include only about twenty at a time.

I'm quite bad at returning books on time, though, or calling or using the Internet to renew them. I suppose I just don't think about such things, or think about taking precautions like writing myself notes or putting the due dates in a calendar. Call it ADHD; call it irresponsibility; but whichever it is, I usually find myself paying regular dues to patronize whichever library is closest to me. I don't really mind, though; they will just buy more books with the fine money, or else give it to underpaid library workers; and either use is fine (pun intended) with me.

I love Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings trilogy. I loved it long before there were movies, long before hordes of fangirls and rubber elf ears and, most likely, the infliction of several injuries while trying to surf down staircases on various shield-analogues.

My first introduction to Tolkien's Middle-Earth was The Hobbit. It was an old hardcover book in my school's libarary, and I loved it. And then I listened to the old BBC radio drama, with the story of Frodo and his ring, and loved it even more; and when I finally read the books--I was about fifteen and even more idealistic than I am today--I was completely and utterly hooked.

The movies, thankfully, were reasonably accurate and well-made; and I enjoyed them thoroughly. One thing, however, puzzled and annoyed me. This was the existence--and proliferation--of Legolas fangirls.

Looking back on it, I should have expected that young girls just discovering the opposite gender might have been captured by the actor's physical good looks and his general "coolness".

But, much as I like Legolas--which is about as much as I like any of the other characters--I have always been a Gimli fan, and a fan of dwarves in general.

In the movies, Gimli generally gets treated like a sidekick and given the job of "comic relief"; but the truth is, he's just as valuable a member of the Fellowship as any of its members (except Aragorn and Frodo, without whom nothing could have been done). We're very silly about looks in the movies; if someone isn't good-looking, they are either a villain or a sidekick; and the exceptions to that rule are few.

I am very like a Dwarf myself--short, at exactly 5 feet tall; round, durable, and direct. You can see from my picture that I have no hint of facial hair, as female dwarves reportedly do; but if you were to refuse to judge by appearances (something which, in the modern world, not many do), you would easily see the resemblance between myself and a Dwarf.

I suppose, then, that this will be my introduction; for in comparing myself to a Dwarf, I mention many of my main personality traits.

Dwarves love, above all, the making of beautiful things. This is something I have always enjoyed. Whether it's quilting, crochet, or simply making a room or a yard neat, simple, and beautiful, there is an elemental satisfaction in having created something with your own hands. I'm not one for frills; simplicity has its own beauty, and is much more functional. If I make something, I want to be sure that it will stand up to hard use, and will serve its purpose. A quilt I made in high school is still on my bed today, as warm as it ever was. Certainly creating useful and beautiful things out of cloth and yarn rather than metal is more feminine than one would expect of a Dwarf; but then, that may just be due to my lack of a beard.

Dwarves have very little use for courtly manners. They are a people who speak plainly and do not hide their intentions; they are people of action and not long speech. If a Dwarf does not like you, he will say so. If he considers himself your friend, he will die for you. There is no duplicity, no wearing of masks, and no unearned respect. Many think them blunt and rude; but they are not--they are simply Dwarves. I am like that, too: Simple and straightforward. The intricacies of others' social interactions simply do not interest me; and I imagine some people don't like me because I do not gild my words or tell "little white lies". But there's a good part to it, too: If you know me, you know where you stand with me; and if you are my friend, I am willing to do anything necessary to help you.

There is a tendency to characterize Dwarves as uncivilized; but that is not true. They may dress simply; but their clothes are durable. They may seem to have little regard for personal appearance; but for a people who work hard and fight even harder, what does it matter if you have less classical beauty than an Elf, when you can put in a twelve-hour day in the mines, take the heads from a few orcs' shoulders, and still drink a mug of ale with your comrades at night?

Like a Dwarf, I have very little regard for physical appearance. I keep myself clean and my clothing in good repair; but I do not see the point of make-up, fine (and uncomfortable) clothing, or tight shoes. My "uniform", a T-shirt, denim jacket, canvas tennis shoes, and khakis (in the pocket of which I always carry my knife--it's not an axe, but it will do), is made for comfort and composed of mostly garage-sale finds (why spend money on clothing, when one can get the same things for very little?). And as for make-up... Well, you can see that I'm wearing none in my picture; that's the way I look every day, and I would much rather be comfortable than spread gunk across my skin in an attempt to look like some anorexic cover girl. I don't remember the last time I wore any.

I am stubborn and persistent. Those can be positive or negative traits, depending on the situation; but when you are trying to change the world, as I am (or at least, trying to change my little corner of it), they are necessary traits.

Like many dwarves, I am a warrior. I have never been in serious, to-the-death physical combat; but I have never backed down from a confrontation--not when I was a nine-year-old facing the wrath of an abusive stepfather, nor as a fourteen-year-old with a second stepfather trying to intimidate me into keeping his secrets. I am quite as durable as any dwarf when it comes to sheer survival.

The very strange thing is that, today, I myself am the enemy I must fight. Major depression is just six months in remission; and I have, in addition to the positive traits that Asperger Syndrome and ADHD bring me, many obstacles to overcome in the arenas of organization, social skills, and sensory integration.

When I fight against myself, I understand all too well that we are very equally matched. And while I am very stubborn, so are the problems I am trying to overcome. If I were an Elf, I might have left for Valinor a long time ago; but I am not an Elf.

I am a Dwarf, and I am proud of it.