The lament of a Hamilton librarian

I woke to a foggy morning today.

That in itself is not unusual, but the very opaqueness of the fog that greeted me this day was almost Dickensian. My first thought was to stay in bed. But, I knew I could not. I knew that I had to venture out…to where my friends are.  I know they will be there to greet me, as they have been daily for the last four(?), five(?)—how many years has it been? The years have, like the Hamilton fog, obscured much. But unlike the fog, that obfuscation has been a blessing, protecting me from the reality of being…of being here.

I woke to a foggy morning today. However, I made my way by bike to work. I chained my bike to the railing outside as is the purpose of the railing. The pragmatism of the railing is disquieting and does nothing, as an embodiment of the town, to dispel the omnipresent depression one feels constantly and inevitably.

But, my friends are here, here to greet me. There they are in rigid lines, smiling at me. They are a colourful cluster, inside and out. The rigidity of the lines belies the riot of colour they present—each so different from the others, each providing an individual ingredient to the banquet of friendship they present. It is a rich and rewarding banquet. It is one, I think, I could not live without.

My friends, my books.

I should not want to live without my books. The Hamilton Public Library where I work, where I cycle to every day from my bedsitter in Claudelands, is an oasis of calm and culture in this town.

No, it is more than that: it is a sanctuary and a portal—through which one may escape this world and journey to lands afar where beasts may be tamed, mountains may be climbed, crimes may be solved, bodices may be ripped, and love may be found.

The Hamilton Public Library is all this…and more.

The Hamilton Public Library is my home, my haven…my liberty.

What I want to be when I grow up

Let’s at the outset say that I am what I always intended to be as a grown-up. Whether I have indeed grown up is the only question left unanswered. I spent 30 years in advertising. And that is what I wanted to do. It was a productive time for me. It taught me many life-skills that—had time remained my friend—would have got me a job in just about every profession I could name. I compiled a list of a few. I could have become:

A teacher

In advertising, I learnt to be adept at seemingly retaining my fervour for the job whilst secretly seething with frustration. It wasn’t that the job was not personally rewarding. It was. And for a teacher able to shape young minds it must be doubly so. But in teaching as in advertising there is always an expectation for you to sell something you don’t entirely believe in—like The Treaty.

An airline pilot

Back in the 70s and 80s we in advertising flew high. We mastered the art of doing so with very little substance below us and only the rarefied air of being on top of the world to sustain us. Of course, there was always the possibility we would come crashing to the ground—as we did in the mid-80s—but we never lived for tomorrow. We lived for the day and couldn’t remember it tomorrow.

A Hamilton librarian

In Auckland advertising we were good. But those working in Wellington were better. We learnt early to handle the frustration of being second-best or being even further down the totem pole if we accept that most of the great advertising of the time emanated from the United Kingdom. So, I could handle the Hamilton humiliation of being at best second best. At least a Hamilton librarian has the facility to think of books less as a vocation than as an escape.

Leader of NZ First

Of all the jobs I am qualified for, this comes pretty close to the top. The reason is that advertising taught me one essential skill—one precept, one I share with the current leader of NZ First: “it is not what you want to say, it is what they want to hear.” I am good at that.

A televangelist

Possibly the easiest for me to master, given my advertising background. Essentially it is sales. No more, no less. Once you manage to lose that frustrating little albatross some call a conscience and replace it with the knack to selling with fervour, passion and naked belief something in which you have no belief—you are made. Advertising is second only to car sales as providing the necessary skills for televangelism.

Local body communications manager

Top of the tree for me. Requires only the essential skill (learnt in advertising and PR) of seemingly saying something when you are not. There is a skill in that. An even greater skill, requiring greater imagination, is finding a way to say nothing at all. After all, you are an expert in communications—not conveying it, just creatively avoiding it. That’s what council pays you for. Only problem is I would probably have to change my name to Dick, because that is what everybody else would call me.

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The Sting in the Tail

I count myself fortunate that I know a lot of people generally classified as creative. I think classification is important because without it most everybody, excluding Hamilton residents, could and should be called creative. However, let’s for the point of argument deal with actors, writers, artists, musicians, filmmakers, and advertising people, and exclude those who—either through choice of career or simple lack of interest—do not see themselves as being creative.

The thing about creative people is that often their greatest “creation” is themselves. Not everybody, of course; but I suggest a heavy percentage of creatives put a great deal of effort into building mystique around themselves and the creative process. So much effort in fact, that some make it seem effortless: Hemmingway is an example. But the fact that creatives need to feel different and act different is unfortunate. They would make a far greater contribution to society and probably be more liked if they acknowledged that, whilst they may be more “gifted” than others in some areas, the person in the next aisle has gifts of her own. Their gifts will be different and perhaps not as ethereal, but they are still gifts—and should be honoured as such. So, my point –and I know you were wondering if there was one—is that in weaving the rich tapestry of life we are all weavers, we are all making contributions and even those whom society deems worthless have some worth, unless of course you are Mike Pence.