clashes in the stacks

So I'm in NYC on a medieval manuscript conference (associated with the New York Public library's "Splendor of the Word" http://nypl.org/research/calendar/exhib/hssl/hsslexhibdesc.cfm?id=354 ). I'm meeting bigwigs in the manuscript world, understanding now more than ever that my boss is one of them, noting the oddities of professional researchers, scratching the veneer off the moneyed elite (collectors) and wishing I could be with Rick in Sarasota, drinking coffee and being slow.

The dynamics of working for a millionare in NYC, during these veritable feast days of viewing, talking, schmoozing, oo-ing, ah-ing, nodding, lying are exhausting. Money is so strange. And money wrapped up in work politics, paternal/maternal undercurrents, and disparities in knowledge/history/language is even more strange. exhausting. emotional. it makes me emotional.

what did rick and i talk about tonight? the ego. feeling the coarse brush-up of familiarity and distance, a strange passing that feels like gentle grating. slow enough to not wince, but accumulative nevertheless. shredded skin and memories on the floor. my self left far behind as i recall those tumultuous aclu days during which i exposed my soft spots in what i thought was bracing for safety. i'm aware this doesn't follow a neat narrative. think of this as words collected rather than sentences formed.

i'm tired, too impatient for something online, wishing i were sleepy enough for bed, responsible enough for dishes, or bold enough for pen to page.