Monday, September 9, 2013

an upcoming article

The title of my upcoming article for the neighborhood newsletter had to be kept a secret up until the very last minute, and the editor, Reggie, was none too happy about that!  I don't feel like saying right now if Reggie is a man or a woman so for now I'm just gonna go with hir as a possessive pronoun.

I worked for awhile at the New Johnny Appleseed Museum in Pittsburgh.  It was a strange and difficult period.  Presently I am living in my cousin's attic in a minor suburb of that fair city.  Thankfully, my anonymity is still almost completely intact.  I no longer engage with any social media and I concede that this is probably a major mistake.  I don't know what people's name's are.  I don't know what their occupations or areas of interests are, either.  I know nothing and no one, essentially.  A desert island existence.  Confused and humbled beyond all proper measure.  If there are other people out there like me, and I'm sure that there are, I will most likely never become aware of their innermost secrets, and that's something I'm just gonna have to get used to.

I was told by people on Facebook, Youtube, and Twitter that I was making serious errors, and that I probably needed to go off by myself for awhile and reflect at length on what those errors consisted of.  I was a greeter at the museum.  I sat in a desk chair just inside the front door and greeted people, in full costume, dressed as a middle-aged Johnny Appleseed.  When there was no one to greet I was allowed by my boss to read books, because apparently Johnny himself went in for that kind of thing.  The only stipulation was that they had to be well-worn 700+ page monsters, published before Johnny's lifetime, so as not to break character.  Books that Johnny might have actually read himself, if he'd wanted.

It was a bizarre job, indeed.  I'm not ashamed to admit it.  People must have thought I had some sort of psychological problem.  I guess that's not totally far from the truth!  I learned about some of these things from Robert Burton's encyclopedic The Anatomy of Melancholy.  If you know what I'm referring to here, send me some sort of message.  Drop a letter off at the museum and tell them it's for William.  They will understand what you are saying and happily comply with your wishes.  Believe it or not, I was fairly well-liked by my co-workers.