The Memory Librarian and Other Stories of Dirty Computer

by Janelle Monáe

we accepted their offer that an eye in the sky might protect us from . . . ourselves,

even all their overseeing couldn’t keep watch on the whole nation at once.

what they struggled to see, they began to deem not worthy of being seen—inconsistent, off standard. Began calling it dirty—unfit to be swallowed by their eyes.

memory of who we’ve been—of who we’ve been punished for being—was always the only map into tomorrow.

seen as unseeable—deviant,

beauty in order, peace in rigidity, and tranquillity in a constant, sun-dappled present.

She has determined to embrace her distance instead of constantly hoping for an acceptance that will never be theirs.

was

only an illusion of omniscience—Seshet

She might be the Director Librarian, but without this woman’s memories stored in her head, they are just two humans learning together in the most old-fashioned of ways. It rubs against her nerves like salt water on a dirty wound, but there is peace in this ignorance too, a thrill of discovery, a joy.

What’s this I’ve been hearing about false memories gumming up the collection systems over there?

They’re not memories but they’re not those strong dreams that sometimes get past the filters either.

Counseling receives a constant influx of people looking for help—or looking to raise their Standards scores and petition to change their numbers. She receives reports on their activities, of course. She even personally involves herself in the cases that interest her—diagnosing emotional liabilities, selecting the memories for repression or amplification, reveling in the messy, subtle work of realigning a personality.

No one in her position has the luxury of fairness.

There is a difference, vital as a heartbeat, between what is permitted to her position and what is aligned with her soul.

if the flames burn on the fuel of your own shame, not even mortal terror can make you brave the heat.

How much more power will she need before she can feel safe from everyone moving in ways she doesn’t expect and cannot control, even as she loves them?

Dreams aren’t memories. They are memories’ voices.”

the whispering idea, which New Dawn cannot kill, that there is something more, something different, something real out beyond the margins.

Whatever choices you made, you couldn’t just erase your own knowledge of them. You had to live with them until you died.

the hard, old way of forgetting, which is remembering with grief.

What’s the point of memory collection if you don’t use what you steal?

Maybe if you try again you won’t suppress her at all.”

She missed the music of the hotel the moment she exited, even as the wind hit her face, just cool enough to mimic the feeling of misting water.

Cleanse the dirtiness from her mind, her lips, her tongue, the way her thighs moved, so that then—and only then—she would be something holy.

She was wary of what the smell of legendary and heroic could do, and gently sidestepped anything that resembled authority.

All the groups had something else in common, aside from uniting as queer and woman-aligned: they’d sought out an escape from a world that dealt in painful binaries, in good or bad, dirty or clean. Everyone at the Pynk Hotel was here to experiment with art, with freedom, with life, and whatever that meant for them.

maybe it shouldn’t be surprising that New Dawn wasn’t content to let anything outside their pristine walls remain dirty.

Bat could sense emotions, so trying to hide certain things made no sense; telling everything made even less sense.

There was nothing like that burst of creative healing in hearing the actual noises that accompanied the reality.

“Sorry I’m the wrong kind of dirty for you,”

Raven nodded, having so much to say and not knowing what was worthy.

You had to choose your battles, and Amber’s policy was to not choose any at all.

That the inmate’s cleansing has resulted in warped function: confirmed. That the inmate poses no danger to the collective peace: confirmed.

It was a shock to the system, all this forgotten sweetness.

for a moment Amber could imagine what it meant to be a regular girl, to have friends you could count on seeing again.

The mallet drowned out the pounding of their hearts.

Mama. Such a small word for the whole world.

painted haint blue to keep the bots and bad spirits out,

But even with their back turned, running, running, running, Bug could hear the lie in the wind.

Remembering the dead was hard work.

longing could not cover the distance of fear.

It rose from the center of the four carved stones as if it had sprung up from the earth, a wild blossom, a riot of color and textures, a haven for rescued, forgotten things.

Community comes from feeling and feeling comes hand in hand with creation.

Music made of time