If I ever open up my own reading cafe, it will be named The Lost Mug, and I will fill it from the attic (which it must invariably have) to the carpets on the wood-planked ground with Dada art.

Students will be allowed and encouraged to submit their own pieces for display.

There’ll be a couch along one wall, a massive, stretch couch in a burnt umber that guests will be encouraged to write or draw upon. That’ll probably get messy quickly, but hey, that’s what couch covers are for. So I’m envisioning a canvas of soft, worn cream covering the monstrous thing lengthwise, and when it gets messy, I’ll whisk it off and trim out the bits I like, and make a patchwork wallpaper of it.

This last imaginary decor reminds me of my high school philosophy class memories, when armed with nothing but a flair pen and our wits, and with relish took to tablecloths of bright yellow and dim violet butcher paper. Within half an hour, entire ideologies and world beliefs would bloom like bruises across the room, all black and blue and shimmering wetly.

This entire fantasy was brought on by a phone call I received this morning. Two days from now, I have an interview for an art librarian position at my university.




I suppose getting an interview isn’t anything especially spectacular after having held four jobs already, but still I am restless with glee.

So now my browser is crammed full of tabs on art, the library system, various librarian databases, and so on.

(And, in the back of my head, I’m already planning my interview outfit…) Whee~!


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