I haven’t worked a lot of jobs. Nothing that seems majorly Career focused… mostly, just what I might find interesting. I never felt like, nor do I even want to feel that going to work would be depressing or live absorbing in any sort of way. I wanted so badly to deeply have a passion for whatever it is I chose to do. Whether that be part-time, casual, full time or whatever. I wanted to be able to say that I liked getting up in the morning and going to work.
Now I know that most jobs, whether you love them or not, will have bad days. Days where you dread what may come. Or days where you come home exhausted, mentally, physically and emotionally. But if that would ever be the case, id rather be sapped by something I love, than sapped by something I hate.

For me, it started with family. I think that’s where any drive for work comes from. I spent weekends, and holidays sweating my arse off stacking boxes and puncturing steel for dad. It was hard and the conditions were rough. With no heat or cool, the major seasons of the year would take the energy out of your body.
Little things like entering invoices and standing in front of a drilling machine were a chore. Mostly because your fingers were so stiff from the cold in winter and the summer heat made it feel like the sun was burning right behind you.

Despite that, I rarely complained, which if I’m being honest, is something I’m really proud of. I usually talk a lot of shit, but it was very easy to put what I was doing into perspective.
Dad did it day in and day out, year after year. So my thought process was that if he had to, then so should I.
Learning the ins and outs of how we got food on the table made me appreciate everything I had, and understand all the reasons as to why I didn’t have things that I sorely wanted. Every invoice I entered, every piece of metal I carved away at was money. It was dollar signs in our bank account, and no matter how small the work seemed to be, it all added up.

But I couldn’t spend all my days in a machinery house in Ingleburn. It’s not what Dad wanted, and it wasn’t really what I wanted either.
So I moved on.

For a short time, I worked for a not-for-profit arts organisation which lead me to my first actual job at the local museum, which isn’t what you might think it is. It isn’t huge, with hundreds of old artefacts or world famous paintings. It’s not full of wide open spaces and does not have the same upper-class appeal you may see in movies or television.
Quite the opposite actually.
It’s small and homey, with local artists and local heritage sites as it’s the main attraction. From our front desk, you can hear the traffic hustling and bustling by on the main road. The wind can be heard from anywhere because of the trees that have overgrown the place itself, and in the winter, the cold coats itself over everything…from the door handles that you try your best to open on a freezing morning, to the old desks that sit in an old heritage school building.

But you should see it when the sun shines…everything seems so peaceful and perfect. Little flowers blow out in the wind and onto the grass. The sun finds itself through whatever clouds are overhead and it’s so warm & fulfilling to sit down and just relax. The local families come by every now and then for events but for the most part its quiet with very few visitors. To be fair, I couldn’t have asked for a bigger stark contrast to the family business that I grew up in.

But despite the romanticized picture I just described, I knew the real importance of a place like that….that is the connection to the community. I learned a lot about the value of who and what we live around. The importance of local events and the social dynamic that bringing together a number of different people from different walks of life, creates. That idea, that lesson, is what lead me to where I am today. The library.

It’s oddly fitting for a guy like me to find himself here because the truth is that I grew up not around museums and paintings, but around books on shelves.

We couldn’t afford much entertainment growing up. The tv we had was busted and old. My pushbike was always banged up and its tyres kept getting wrecked, and there were only so many days that I could spend outside before getting bored.

So my earliest memories aren’t just of playing in the dirt or climbing trees. In fact, they are filled with my mum, brother and I, catching a bus or driving in our old Camry to the local library.

It was air-conditioned in summer and heated in winter. It had a kid’s section and an adult’s section, a study place for students and a bunch of cushions for kids to read on. I spent hours buried deep into comic books and small novels.
I lived lives in different worlds. I loved the bright colour of James and his Giant peach and found the tense lives Max Remy and Alex Rider’s teenaged spy adventures, exhilarating. I went to Hogwarts and travelled  Middle Earth. I watched Asterix and Obelix beat up Roman soldiers and looked for Red Rackham’s Lost treasure with Tintin and his dog Snowy.
George R.R Martin said that a reader lives a thousand of lives…I dare anyone to say that isn’t true.

For many ways…the local library was a sanctuary…but it wasn’t long before I became disinterested.

I think being a boy can be tough…because ultimately you have to be tough. You have to walk off splinters, scrapes and grazes. You have to hold back tears and yelps of pain. Grass stains and dried blood decorate whatever jersey, uniform or everyday clothing you wear, and your whole body becomes littered with just as many scratches and scars as there are words on a page.

But the shitty thing is that if you complain, you’ll never hear the endless banter and ridicule from not only your mates but, from girls, teachers, coaches and anyone that feels like you’re anything less than what you’re supposed to be.

So when I grew older and began to be exposed to more and more of the world, my interest in things that others may consider to be soft, dwindled. I spent more time outdoors collecting mud on my shoes and scars on my arms… the worlds I once were so eager to discover slipped away and into the past. Any dream I had of becoming a storyteller was beginning to fade away.

And I think that is where the real shame is. I was convinced that there was no real future for me in other people’s words. Novels were a great past time but writing and telling stories was to stay a hobby and never a passion.

And as tragic as that may sound I think that’s what makes me value the way things are, more and more. Without other peoples push for what boys were always meant to do, I would have never discovered my love for riding down a steep hill with the wind in my ears. Or playing backyard footy or soccer on a hot summer weekend.

But, there were times where I wished someone besides my mum and dad told me to write and read more. To go to the library, where it all started, and dig deep into the tales of so many talented people.
Maybe that outside influence could’ve made the difference.

But in all honesty, that’s probably why I’m back.
I understood that it doesn’t have to be either/or. I can have both. I can live two lives so long as I love them both the same. It’s my choice, and now I’m back to where it started…even if it’s a little different.

I have an I-pad attached to my waist that I wear like a cowboy does his gun in his holster. I walk around telling people to be quiet, instructing older people on how to print and making sure younger people have library cards to use computers.

I don’t mind it. Not one bit. It’s honest work. And it’s a massive service to the community…I can’t count how many times I’ve gotten heartwarming smiles from children as you find a book they’ve been searching for, for ages. Or when you take five minutes to chat with an elderly person about their day. Or even when you print off an assignment for a kid at 8 pm, who clearly doesn’t want to go home…whether that be because home isn’t the best place to be, or if they just really like the library.

I like it….but it changed. All it really does is make me wish I spent more time there and maybe less time worrying about what other people thought.

But even with all the countless lives I’ve missed out on living through books, I was still able to live mine. I guess that’s the saving grace. Maybe that’s the reason it all worked out.
Despite the drug dealers and rat pack hooligan kids that come in and cause trouble, despite the long walk back to my car at night, and despite the constant yearning to sit in a quiet area and just read a book.
I like it.
Just as much as the museum and just as much as carving steal.

It’s me.

Ever since I first stepped foot, with my hand grasped firmly around my mothers, my eyes already looking at which shelf to dive into. It was, for the longest part of my life, home. It was me then, and it’s me now…And I think it always will be.